Page 36 of Daddy's Christmas Rescue
My breath caught. “Blake, what is all this?”
He smiled, that same gentle, practical smile. “You liked the old ones you found in the closet. I thought you should have your own. New ones.”
My chest squeezed tight. I didn’t know whether to cry or laugh.
“They’re for you,” he said, crouching beside the box. “Thought they might help you feel settled.”
I stared at the toys, at the neat plastic packages, the tiny pastel furniture. They looked just like the ones I’d lost years ago, the ones my mother had thrown out with Banjo.
It was like he knew when it was impossible. And somehow, that made it worse. He didn’t want me, not all of me. Yes he wanted the part I'd always struggled to keep hidden, but that was because he wanted tohealme. Protect me. Keep me soft and small and safe in the way someone cares for a child who’s been hurt.
He didn't see all of me, or if he did he didn't want that part.
I forced a smile, hoping it looked real. “They’re beautiful. Thank you.”
He searched my face for a moment, like he was trying to read something there, then nodded. “We’ll set them up later, if you want.”
“Sure.” My voice was too thin.
He went back to cleaning up breakfast, humming low under his breath. I sat perfectly still, hands folded in my lap, trying not to let the tears fall.
I should’ve been grateful. And I was. He’d saved me. Fed me. Kept me safe.
But some small, foolish part of me wanted more. I wanted him to look at me the way he looked at the world when he wasbuilding something, not fixing something broken. Wanted to be something he reached for, not someone he had to take care of.
When he turned around, smiling faintly like he didn’t know I was breaking inside, I smiled back. It wasn’t a lie, exactly. Just another version of being brave.
By late morning the smell of coffee and syrup had faded, and the house had gone still again. Blake had gone out to the workshop out the back. Biscuit had fallen asleep by the fire.
I sat cross-legged on the rug surrounded by the toys he’d bought, trying to decide if I should open the dollhouse box or just hide it back in the closet. The tiny windows and pastel shutters were perfect, but every time I looked at them, I couldn’t tell if I felt loved or simply placated.
The knock on the door startled me so hard I dropped a little wooden chair. Biscuit barked once, sharp, before trotting toward the entryway.
Blake’s boots thudded against the floorboards as he came in from outside. He opened the door only halfway at first. Two people stood on the porch, a man and a woman in plain clothes but with the quiet, professional look that saidlaw enforcement.
“Mr. Weston?” the man asked, flipping open a badge. “Detective Samuels, Bar Harbor. This is Detective Alvarez. We need to speak with Miss Holly Turner.”
The sound of my last name hit like cold water. My throat closed.
Blake shifted instantly, his body half in front of me. “About what?”
Alvarez’s tone was gentle. “It’s all right, ma’am. You’re not in any trouble. We just thought you deserved to hear what’s happened.”
I took a small step forward, clutching Banjo against my chest. “What’s happened?”
Samuels cleared his throat. “Can we come in?"
Blake opened the door and closed it behind them. Samuels didn't waste any time. "Early this morning, the state financial crimes unit executed a warrant on Clearwater Insurance. Your parents, George and Marianne Turner, and Vincent Hale were arrested.”
The room seemed to tilt.
“Arrested?” I repeated, the word foreign on my tongue.
“For wire fraud, money laundering, and insurance manipulation on a large scale,” Alvarez said. “There’s also evidence of identity misuse and forged documents. Including several where your name was used when you couldn't give consent as a minor. Mr. Gerald O'Keefe, a lawyer, has confirmed those signatures were used illegally.”
My knees felt weak. Blake’s hand brushed my back—just enough to steady me without drawing attention.
“They used my name,” I whispered.
