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Jubilee’s face crumples, and she slumps over her knees.

I’ve seen the old pictures. The laughing horse girl with ribbons on her jacket. Now I know exactly what she was hiding from.

“I thought if I looked harder, meaner,” Jubilee says quietly, “less like…” She gestures helplessly at herself. “Less like me, men would stop noticing me.”

Her mother closes her eyes. “Oh, baby.”

Jubilee’s chin trembles. “I thought I was helping.”

“So did I.”

That silences them both, and it hits me: they’ve spent years doing the same thing from opposite sides. Each trying to become the shield. Neither realizing the other was standing behind one too.

Her mother reaches across the cushion. Jubilee hesitates only a second before reaching for her. “I should’ve told you,” Anne says, and holds on. “But you were always fixing whatever disaster came next.” Her thumb rubs over Jubilee’s knuckles. “I wanted one goddamn thing you didn’t have to fix.”

A grimace lingers on Jubilee’s lips. “You were still drunk when I needed you sober.”

“I know.” This time, she doesn’t turn away.

“You checked out for months.” Jubilee’s grip tightens until her knuckles whiten. “I was so fucking angry at you.”

“You had every right to be.”

Jubilee’s shoulders come down an inch. “I was angry at myself too.”

Tyson remains unconscious, contributing more to society than he has all evening.

Anne takes a shaky breath. “I wasn’t trying to leave you alone, Juju Bean. I was just doing a really shitty job of staying.”

Jubilee wipes her cheek with her sleeve, just beneath her eye.

Her mother clears her throat. “I have his texts.”

I come off the wall. Jubilee’s head snaps around. “What?”

“All of them.” She digs her phone from her coat pocket. “Messages. Threats. Every time he changed the deal. Every time he held the rent over my head.”

“You kept everything?”

Her mother takes visible offense. “I’m drunk a lot, Jubilee. I’m not stupid.”

A startled laugh escapes Jubilee. The sound eases me. Not because any of this is fine, but because her mother suddenly seems like someone surfacing after a long time underwater. She unlocks the phone and moves through folders. Dates. Screenshots. Notes.

“Chess.” Jubilee studies her. “You used to organize everything like this when you taught me chess.”

A faint smile tugs at Anne’s mouth. “You were terrible at keeping track of the whole board.”

“I was six.”

“You were still terrible.”

Jubilee smiles through wet lashes. “You taught me how to play. Dad taught me how to win.”

Her mother goes somewhere else for a second. Jubilee rarely mentions her father beyond the fact that he disappeared. But that isn’t important right now.

I step closer, stopping just short of their space. “Would you be willing to send those to the detective I mentioned?”

Anne inclines her head to me. “Will it help bury this asshole?”