Chapter Thirty
Bella doesn’t eat after he leaves. She just sits very still, toast cooling in her hand, eyes on the door as if it might open again without warning. I take the toast, set it down, and pull her into my lap. She’s nine, but in moments like this she feels both younger and older—small enough to fold into me, heavy with worries I’d cut out of her if I could.
My heartbeat is too loud. Every breath scrapes.
“I’m okay,” she whispers finally, as if she needs to say it to make it true.
“I know,” I lie softly, smoothing her hair. “We both are.”
Her voice is a thread. “He sounds… sure.”
“People who are wrong often do.” It comes out dryer than I mean. “He thinks declaring a thing makes it real.”
“Does it?” she asks.
“No,” I say, more firmly. “It doesn’t.”
I feel the tremble slowl
