Page 110 of My Damaged Protector

What was that nonsense about trusting her and she'll trust me too eventually about then?

She lied to me. They both lied.

“I'm guessing you're not going to tell me where she's gone,” I say, hoping she'll come clean. She doesn't.

“She doesn't want you following her.”

Fine.

They can both move to the mountain and never come back for all I care.

Stalking out of the house, I enter my truck and drive away with my heart shattering in my chest.

There's only one reason she'd leave without telling me. She doesn't give two fucks about me.

Is this how she felt when I left all those years ago?

The pain in my chest doubles, and I try to look at the silver lining in the whole situation. At least I don't have to continue worrying about her.

She'll be safe where she is, and if she doesn't want me coming after her, then I won't.

She wants a fresh start? I'll give her one.

Maybe it's time for me to consider getting a fresh start on my own.

32

SARAH

Six days,sixteen hours, and twenty minutes. That's how long it's been since I left the only true home I've had forever.

There’s no way for Sheila to get to my house back in Glazer Ville without drawing any attention, so I had to leave with the clothes I had at her house and buy some things on the way over. I was able to pick up my car, thank God for that.

My new home is beautiful. It's sad to admit, but I miss Ian. I miss Sheila, too. And Olivia, which is why I've had Sheila go pick her up from school.

They are on break, and normally she'd come home for it, but she has no idea what's going on yet.

I've been thinking of the best way to tell her, but I've been unable to find it. She won't like this. I know my daughter.

I go through the house for probably the hundredth time today, wanting to be sure everything is in place. Sheila called me a few minutes ago saying they're close by.

Since it's almost evening, I've taken the liberty to prepare dinner—my daughter’s favorite. Fried rice, chicken, beans, and chocolate cake for dessert. I couldn't make the cake, so I ordered it. Sheila's the one who knows how to make the best cake for her.

Ascertaining one more time that everything is in place and mentally chastising myself to get my shit together, I leave the house and go stand on the porch to wait for them.

I don't have to wait for long.

Sheila's old Mustang shows at the beginning of the street, and it announces their presence with the loud sound that always accompanies it. That car is one thing I know she loves more than anything else. She got it from her father as her eighteenth birthday present, and she's never used another car since.

Never repainted it.

The paint is not chipping because of how carefully she treats it, but it could certainly use some repainting.

As she cruises down the street, I rush down the porch to the front of the house. By the time the car stops, there's so much screaming and squealing, and it's coming only from the front of my house. It's a quiet neighborhood, and I know I'm drawing attention to myself, but I honestly don't care right now.

“Mummy!” My twelve-year-old daughter rushes toward me with her hands stretched out. I receive her with open arms, squeezing her to me like a lifeline.

“I've missed you,” she says excitedly.

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