“That won’t be necessary,” she said. “Emma can gather what she
needs later. Right now, this family needs to talk.”
I looked at the woman who had raised me.
I remembered her working two jobs after my father died, remembered the way she stretched groceries and patched my school uniforms. I had loved her fiercely for that. I had built my success partly on the promise that she would never struggle again.
But love, I was learning, could be used as a key.
And some people, once inside, never stopped taking.
“This family will talk,” I said. “After my wife is safe and comfortable.”
My mother’s gaze flicked to Emma. “Safe? What exactly has she told you?”
Emma flinched.
There it was.
Not an accusation.
A warning.
I stepped closer. “She hasn’t told me anything yet. That’s the problem.”
The climb upstairs felt longer than I remembered.
