Dad’s hands tightened on the steering wheel so hard his knuckles blanched. “We don’t negotiate with threats,” he said.
“We don’t have a choice,” I said, and I hated myself for the surrender in the words.
The screen on my phone lit again: a photo—Dominic, in the back of the van, a bruise starting on one cheek, hand pressed to his stomach like he was holding himself together for a reason we both suspected. A caption: Proof we have him. Bring the child, or the full archive—plus more—goes public.
The house felt very far away.
We had thought honesty would protect us. We had thought love would be a shield. Now the men who profited off shame had found a way to weaponize justice.
Dad drove faster.
I texted Tyler and Gage and Marisol. I fired callbacks at every contact Dominic had used. They
