Page 10 of Creeping Lily
No warmth. No pretense. Just an exit.
I round on my father. “You’re not covering this up. Tell me you’re not!”
“Keep your voice down,” my mother hisses, but the fury in my chest is volcanic.
“She’ssixteen!” My shout rattles the picture frames on the wall. “She was raped in our home!”
Maria closes Lily’s door. Maybe she’s protecting her from the noise. Maybe she’s protecting me from seeing her.
“This will ruin us,” my father whispers.
Ruin us. Not her. Us.
“What aren’t you telling me? Where’s Bentley?”
My father’s tone is flat, political. “A scandal like this ends everything. Your career. Your brother’s. Mine. This dies here, quietly.”
“You’re going to let her suffer more of this? For something that wasn’t even her fault?” I can’t believe what I’m hearing.
“We can, and we will.” My mother’s voice cracks. She’s crying again, but she’s not fighting.
And then—quietly, like it’s tearing her throat to say it?—
“Bentley… was there.”
The world tilts. My breath catches.
Not an accident. Not strangers. Not random.
My brother was there.
My pulse is a war drum in my ears.
Bentley. Was there.
I move before my mother can stop me. She grabs at my sleeve, but I tear free. Maria’s eyes widen as I shoulder past her.
Lily’s room smells faintly of vanilla undercut by antiseptic. The light is low, the blinds half-drawn, and for a heartbeat I think she’s asleep. Then I see her face.
Christ.
She lies on her side, body folded tight as if she could make herself disappear. Knees drawn to her chest, arms wrapped around her ribs, she curls into the smallest version of herself—fragile, breakable, a silhouette of someone retreating back into the safety of the womb. The world has stripped her raw, and this is all that’s left: a foetal shape carved out of grief and exhaustion, clinging to the idea that if she stays small enough, the darkness might pass her by.
Her skin is paper-white except for the bruises—violet smudges along her jaw, a shadowed bloom across one cheek. Her lip is split. A strip of medical tape disappears beneath her nightshirt, where the neckline has been tugged awkwardly to hide more damage.
Her hair, usually braided, is a tangled curtain across her pillow. Someone’s tucked a blanket around her, but her handsare fisted tight in the fabric, like she’s holding on to keep from falling away entirely.
She stirs, lids fluttering. Her gaze drags toward me, glassy, and in a voice that barely makes it past her lips, she says my name.
“Lincoln.”
It’s a broken thing—plea, relief, apology all at once.
I cross the room in two steps and kneel beside her. My hand hovers over her shoulder, afraid to touch in case she shatters.
“I’m here. You’re safe.”
Her eyes fill. A tear slips down her temple into her hairline. She opens her mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. Just that shaking breath.
