Stacy pov
The word *murderer* was tasting like ash and iron on my tongue, repeating in a terrifying, rhythmic loop behind my eyelids. I couldn't unsee the blood on my uncle’s sleeves. I couldn't unsee the heavy brass lamp.
The room was spinning, the walls closing in on me, until suddenly, the cold, stark air of the bedroom was blocked out by a familiar scent—expensive French perfume, expensive wool, and the deep, unshakable warmth of the woman who had protected me from the day I was born.
My mom just drew me closer to her.
She didn't care that my face was covered in tears and sweat, or that I was shaking so hard I could barely hold my head up. She dropped to her knees right beside me on the plush carpet, her long, elegant arms wrapping around my trembling shoulders. She pulled me flush
