Page 32 of The Verdict

She turned her head to the side, avoiding the question like the answer was too personal and too obvious. “What else did you learn about me?”

“Your father was law enforcement. You moved back to Spain with your mom when he died. Grew up there until your mom died. Held a few nanny positions but nothing stable, and then you returned to the States.”

She made a small noise of disgust. “Sounds so depressing when you abbreviate it like that.”

“Was it?”

Her breath caught, and she looked at me, sadness creeping into the edges of her expression. “I lost a lot of people I cared about.”

“People who should’ve protected you.”

“I don’t know about should have…” There was a beat when the only sound was our footfalls crunching over the forest floor. “I was born here, but my parents weren’t married. So, when my dad died, there were some… issues.”

“With immigration?” It wasn’t bad enough losing her father, but his death had put her mother at risk.

“It was just easier to leave. All my mother’s family was in Barcelona anyway.” She shrugged like it was no big deal.

“And when you got there?”

Another long pause. “It turns out her family wasn’t too happy she’d never married, so it was just the two of us again.”

Unprotected.

“That must’ve been difficult.”

She shuddered, and then it was like she remembered that vulnerability did her no service because her spine straightened and she forged on, her tone factual and without feeling.

“She worked three jobs to support us, so I learned how to be self-sufficient early on. Then, when I was old enough to take some of that burden, she got sick, and I had to take care of her.”

“Merritt…”

“She didn’t suffer long.” She went on as though she were talking about someone else and not herself. All that emotion—all that pain—locked away tight. “In the end, it was peaceful for her.”

“And for you?”

“I was used to losing by then.” She cleared her throat and asked, “Is that all you want to know?”

“Why’d you come back to the States?”

Her mouth opened and shut, a clear indication that I was about to get a filtered version of the truth.

“I didn’t have anyone else there.”

“Fake.”

Her nostrils flared; I’d struck a nerve. “What does this have to dowith Les’s murder?”

“Nothing,” I said boldly. “But it has everything to do with the woman I’ve killed for in order to protect.”

“So, I owe you the details of my sob story?” Her defensiveness was both understandable and infuriating.

“You don’t owe me a damn thing, Merritt. I’m asking because I want to know you.” My voice cracked. “To help you.”

Pink dusted her cheeks, darker than before. “Sometimes the only person you can trust with the truth is yourself.”

I saw her then—the beautiful, vulnerable version of her that she tried to never let out. And that version was a masterclass in strength and independence.In survival.

“Wrong,” I murmured low. “You can trust me.”

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