Secrets we buried

Chapter 3 -- Strength over fear

Jackson.

My worst enemy.

What was he doing here? At first, my mind couldn’t—wouldn’t—understand. But then it clicked, sharp as broken glass slicing through my thoughts. Jackson was Aunt Roseline’s nephew. Of course. If I was going to take on Martha’s identity, running into him was inevitable.

How ironic. How cruel. How perfect.

The murderer of my baby now stood under the same roof as me—thinking I was his cousin. Wouldn’t that be the sweetest revenge? To live right under his nose, silently tormenting him, watching him squirm without ever realizing who I really was.

Our eyes locked. His gaze was empty, casual, no recognition hiding in its depths. Of course he couldn’t know. My name, my face, my very skin had been altered. But I knew him. My body knew him—my bones tensed, my heart shrank, my rage burned.

And all I wanted to do in that moment was scream: I’m alive, you monster. Did you really think I was gone?

Did you forget who I was?

Of course you did.

I wasn’t the naïve, stupid, in-love girl anymore. That version of me was dead, burned to ashes with the child you murdered.

Roseline’s voice pulled me back.

“Michael is still in custody,” she said quietly. “They say he keeps crying innocence, claiming he knew nothing about Phina’s whereabouts.”

Michael.

My Michael.

My only friend, the one who had always given me pieces of himself when I had nothing—his food, his loyalty, his warmth.

I remembered that night as if it had happened a second ago. I’d whispered through trembling lips: I’m pregnant… but Jackson won’t like this.

Michael had grabbed my hands, steady, sure.

“Don’t worry. I’ll work. I’ll earn. I’ll give you and the baby the life you deserve. He will call me father.”

I had laughed at him. Actually laughed. Told him Jackson loved me. Told him there was no need.

How blind I was. How cruel. And still, Michael stood by me.

And now he rotted in prison for a crime he didn’t commit.

“You’ve been in and out of coma for three months,” Aunt Roseline explained softly, as though breaking bad news to a child.

Three months. My body froze. Three months of silence. Three months of Michael suffering. Three months of Jackson walking free.

My lips parted. “Has she been found yet?” I asked, testing, trembling.

Jackson’s voice sliced through the room.

“We’re going to make sure he stays behind bars and close this case quickly.”

A blade twisted inside me. He wanted the case buried. He wanted Michael erased, forgotten. Of course he did. That was Jackson—kill the truth, bury the evidence, laugh in the ruins.

Rage burned through me so hot I nearly stood and screamed it all out: I’m not Martha. I’m Anne. I know everything.

But I couldn’t. Not yet.

The weight of the secret pressed on me, so heavy my knees weakened. The world spun, and suddenly I was falling. Strong arms caught me.

Jackson’s arms.

“Easy, sis,” he murmured, his voice dripping with concern.

The same arms that had crushed my world, the same hands that had pushed me into hell. Don’t touch me, you vile fool. Don’t dare touch me. I wanted to spit, claw, scream. Instead, I let my lips curl into a weak smile, pretending, masking.

Roseline rushed to my side, guiding me away.

In the washroom, she switched the lights from white to pink. The glow painted the room soft, delicate, almost surreal. And before I could stop myself, words slipped out:

“You’re not fond of white lights.”

She froze. Her eyes widened.

“How did you know that?”

My heart jumped into my throat. I’d slipped. Panic clawed at me. I forced a weak shrug.

“I don’t know… it just occurred to me.”

Her gaze softened, grief flooding her features.

“Ever since I lost my daughter, I’ve had a fondness for pink lights. She loved them.”

I smiled, forcing guilt down.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

She clasped my hand tight, almost desperately.

“No, child. Don’t be sorry. God has given her back to me. In you. My Martha.”

The lie was cementing itself around me, brick by brick, until I could hardly breathe.

Moments later, Jackson entered with fresh towels.

“For the ladies,” he said, flashing a smile so ordinary, so disarming, it reminded me of the butterflies that made me fall for him.

“Oh, you’re such a sweet boy,” Roseline said, pride lighting her face.

We all laughed. Even me. Even me.

And in that instant, a sickening thought slithered into me—was this really the same boy who treated me like dirt, who toyed with my heart, who crushed my soul, who killed my child? Could the devil wear such an easy smile? Could laughter mask the monster?

My laugh caught in my throat. Inside, I was fire. Inside, I was ashes. Inside, I was vengeance wrapped in silk.

Jackson had no idea that death itself now lived under his roof.

Again, our eyes met. Something flickered there—curiosity, suspicion? Familiarity? My chest tightened. Could he have seen it? A trace of me behind this new face?

I turned away quickly, retreating into the bathroom. I turned on the shower, let the water run cold and merciless over my skin. My mind raced, my heart thundered.

This wasn’t just survival anymore. This was war.

And I swore on the ashes of my baby he murdered—his son.

Jackson would not escape me this time.