She came back in April.
I had not expected it. Our phone call in December had felt like an ending — the specific quality of something finished, doors closed, a chapter that had reached its last page. I had let my guard down. I had been building a life and planning a wedding and watching my daughter become more herself every day and I had, for the first time in years, stopped waiting for the next attack.
She appeared at my father's house on a Tuesday.
Dad called me that evening.
"Stella was here," he said. His voice had the specific careful quality it developed when he was managing information he didn't know what to do with. "She wanted me to give you a message."
"What message?" I said.
"She said—" He paused. "She said she has something you need to know. About the night of the gala."
