Page 91 of Imprisoned

Even as I say the words, I wonder if I’m promising something I can’t possibly guarantee. The weight of my deception sits heavy on my chest. When she discovers what I’ve done—liquidating her life without permission—will she forgive me? Or will she see it as the ultimate betrayal, further proof that Axel has corrupted me beyond recognition?

I hold her tighter, as if I could somehow transfer my certainty that this was the only way, that I did it to protect her as much as us. But the truth is simpler and more selfish: I couldn’t bear to leave her behind.

The next morning,Mom doesn’t come down for breakfast. I leave a tray outside her door—fresh fruit, pastries from the localbakery, coffee the way she likes. When I return to check an hour later, she’s taken the coffee but the food is untouched.

When I step out onto the veranda, his expression is unreadable. “Give her time.”

“What if time isn’t enough?” The fear claws at my throat. “What if she can never accept this—accept us?”

“Then that’s her choice, but at least you gave her a chance, right?” His hand finds mine, warm and steady.

A little later, we bump into each other, and she heads toward the kitchen. An awkward silence lingers for a moment.

“Hey, Mom,” I murmur.

Her jaw clenches. “I keep trying to understand how my brilliant, compassionate daughter could throw away everything for this man.”

“Mom—”

“He’s killed people, Willow!” Her voice rises, breaking on my name. “Multiple people. Brutally. How can you possibly?—”

“I know what he’s done.” The words emerge stronger than I expected. “I’ve read every case file, seen every crime scene photo. I know exactly who he is.”

“And you love him anyway.” It’s not a question but a painful realization.

“Yes.” The simple truth is impossible to explain.

She sinks onto the bar stool, suddenly looking older than her sixty-two years. “I don’t know who you are anymore.”

The words cut deeper than I expected. “I’m still me, Mom. I’ve just stopped hiding parts of myself.”

Her eyes, so like mine, search my face. “What parts, Willow? What exactly have you been hiding from me all these years?”

I don’t have an answer she could bear to hear.

I’m painfullyaware of the time slipping through my fingers as I walk along the beach beside Mom in silence on the second day.

“He’s different with me,” I state, breaking the silence.

The morning sun casts long shadows across the sand.

“All his victims probably thought the same thing,” she says quietly.

“It’s not like that. I told you he feels peace when he’s with me for the first time.”

Mom stops walking, turning to face me. “You believe that?”

“I’ve seen it. I’ve watched him change when I touch him. It’s like I anchor him somehow.”

She stares out at the ocean, processing. “And if that changes? If these ‘voices’ return and tell him to hurt you?”

The question has haunted me, too, though I’d never admit it aloud. “Axel wouldn’t.”

“You can’t know that.”

“I do know that.” Even to my ears, the certainty sounds fragile.

Mom resumes walking, her footprints leaving temporary impressions in the wet sand. “I raised you to help people, Willow. To heal them. Not to?—”

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