Victor Hale had been writing to my mother for years. I drove to the house telling myself I was ready for it. I wasn’t, not even a bit. The house smelled exactly the same.
The second I stepped inside, that familiar scent hit me hard. Warm, safe, like childhood and Sunday dinners and my mother’s perfume. Before I even reached Jade at the kitchen table with that shoebox and the weird look on her face, it all came rushing back. This was the place where I thought I’d been loved and protected. Turns out I’d been managed here too. Even inside these walls.
I forced myself to keep walking. If I stopped, the anger might swallow me whole. Jade stood up when I came in. The letters were spread out on the table like evidence, but she wasn’t touching them anymore. She’d clearly been waiting for me.
“H
