KADE
“You knew him and you didn't tell me?"
Her voice hit like a thrown blade. Not loud, but sharp. And it didn’t miss.
I stood there, halfway between breathing and not, watching her eyes narrow like I’d just kicked her dead cat. I knew I was screwed. But how screwed? That depended on what I said next, and frankly, every option tasted like poison in my mouth.
"I told you," I started, voice low, measured like I was walking through a field of landmines, "that day in the abandoned building—with the meth-head pack? I told you then. I knew your father was Andrew Black."
She didn’t blink. Not once. Just laughed. Dry, cracked. Like the punchline to the worst joke of the century.
"Screw yourself, Kade. That’s not the same thing and you know it. Don’t play dumb with me. You didn’t just know o
