Rafael Monteverde is not your father.
The sentence stayed in the room long after Malik stopped speaking.
I stared at him.
Then at Mom.
Then at Damon.
Nobody looked relieved.
Nobody looked surprised enough.
That was what scared me.
My fingers tightened around the notepad until the paper bent beneath my grip. I wanted to write something. Anything.
Who is he?
Why did Mom never tell me?
Why did a stranger outside the gate know more about my life than I did?
But the words would not come.
My head felt too full. My chest felt too tight. The mark beneath my collarbone had gone cold, but I could still feel it there, like a secret pressed under my skin.
Damon crouched beside the bed, keeping his distance.
“You do not have to deal with all of this at once,” he said.
I looked at him.
