Rachel kept talking, like stopping would mean never speaking again.
“He kept me in different places. Cabins, motels, basements. Always moving. Always saying Dad was helping him, that Dad knew where I was, that no one was coming.”
I turned slowly toward my father.
He didn’t deny it quickly enough.
My mother let out a sound of pure horror.
“Tell her she’s lying, Daniel.”
For a confused second I didn’t understand why she had used that name.
Then I did.
My father’s name was Thomas.
Daniel was the detective.
My mother wasn’t speaking to my father.
She was looking at Noah.
The room tilted.
Noah stood three steps above us, gripping the railing so tightly his knuckles were white.
“Why did Grandma just call me that?”
No one answered.
He looked at me, and I saw the moment he understood there was a secret beneath every secret.
“Elena,” my father said hoarsely, “you should have told him.”
“Told him what?” Noah demanded.
Rachel was staring too.
Not afraid.
Not confused.
Recognizing.
She took a small step toward the stairs.
“How old are you?”
“Fourteen.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“When’s your birthday?”
Noah swallowed.
“October seventeenth.”
Rachel closed her eyes.
My pulse hammered in my throat.
Because October seventeenth was impossible.
Because according to the timeline I had been forced to live with, my son had been born seven months after I was thrown out.
