Page 69 of Behind the Shadows
“Hi, I’m Holland. The fibrosis clinic sent me to do a quick evaluation on Lily.” I gave her a warm smile, inviting her to trust me. “The insurance has threatened to stop paying her bills unless we get this done.”
“Damn insurance. She’s dying—what else do they want? They’re getting their money. Can’t they let her die in peace?”
“It’s frustrating for sure. I would just hate for her family to have large medical bills to pay after she …”
Cynthia frowned, and her lips pressed together. “You’re right. And her son. He’s a great guy. Kind, protective, always checking on her.” She closed the door behind me, and I stepped inside, glancing toward the kitchen.
The sleek granite countertops were white-veined with soft gray in contrast to the matte-black cabinets with gold handles, polished to a mirror shine. A farmhouse sink gleamed under the window, framed by sheer linen curtains that floated with the light breeze from the air conditioning. The backsplash glittered with tiny white and black mosaic tiles.
For a heartbeat, I almost forgot where I was. Almost.
But then the details sharpened. The granite—cracked at the corner, a hairline fracture creeping across it like a scar. The brass handles were rubbed raw in places from obsessive polishing. The air smelled faintly of roses, but underneath, there was something sharp, chemical—like bleach clinging to the grout.
A crucifix hung above the stove, the edges worn smooth where it had been traced over and over. I suspected not in devotion, though, in penance. My stomach twisted. I remembered those hands. I remembered how they offered cookies one moment and gave me away the next.
The refrigerator rattled softly, its surface covered in pastel magnets and yellowing scraps of paper with Bible verses in delicate, looping script. My fingers drifted to the butcher block, tracing the deep scars etched into the wood. For a second, I was young again—feet swinging from a tall chair, a glass of milk sweating on the table. I had no idea what was waiting.
Outside the window, white roses bloomed like they were trying too hard. Too white. Too perfect. But just past them, I saw the weeds, black and gnarled, climbing up the trellis, fighting their way in. Add a little glitter to anything and it hides the ugly.
My thoughts returned to why I was here, and I curled my hands into balls. I wasn’t a little girl anymore. And this time, I wasn’t the one who would be begging.
I left the kitchen on shaking legs while my heart thudded hard in my throat, a brutal, punishing drumbeat as I crossed the house.
The hallway was silent—too silent. No creaks in the floorboards, no low murmur of a TV, no trace of life.
The door to Kip’s mother’s bedroom was cracked open. For a second, I simply stood there, staring at it. My fists clenched at my sides, nails biting into my palms.
I pushed it open.
The room was dim, heavy with the scent of lavender and sickness. Soft white curtains filtered the late light, and an oxygen machine hissed quietly in the corner. She lay in a massive four-poster bed, wrapped in a pale blue blanket, her silver hair spread neatly over the pillow like someone had combed it just so.
She looked smaller than I remembered; much frailer. Her skin had thinned to near translucence, and her bones were prominent under her papered flesh. Her hands were folded loosely on her chest. For a horrible second, I thought she was already gone.
Then her eyes opened. The same eyes. Pale blue, sharp as a scalpel. Her lips pulled into the faintest, knowing smile.
“I was wondering,” she rasped, voice thin but laced with something that still cut deep, “when you would visit.”
Something inside me cracked. I wanted to run. I wanted to scream. Instead, I stepped forward, my jaw tight with tension.
“I’m not here to wish you well,” I whispered. “I’m here to watch you die.”
Something I couldn’t identify flickered across her expression as I stepped closer. For a moment, I wondered if she evenrecognized me. But then her lips curled into that same knowing smile.
“I always knew you’d come back,” she whispered.
I let out a shaky breath. “Stop.”
Her smile didn’t falter.
“You think you broke me,” I said, my tone carrying a steel edge. “You think what you and my father did—selling me, handing me off like a piece of property—made me small. Weak.” A bitter laugh caught in my throat. “You didn’t break me. You made me dangerous.”
Her jaw set and her fingers twitched against the blanket. I stepped closer, close enough to see the faint tremble in her jaw.
“You made me smart. You taught me how to survive in the dark. You made sure I learned to cut before anyone could cut me.” My voice cracked, rage and grief coiled tight in my chest. “You made me into everything you were too much of a coward to face.”
For the first time, the smile slipped a fraction.
My heart hammered against my ribs as flashes of the past played in my mind. “But here’s the thing.”
