40. Evie
40
EVIE
The safe house feels like a coffin. Every creak of wood, every shadow in corners, reminds me of other hiding places. Other moments of running. But this time, the weight of truth sits heavier than any fear.
Through the bedroom door, I watch my daughters finally sleep. Violet curled around her sister like always, dark curls mixing with Daisy’s lighter strands on the pillow. They’ve been so brave and quiet during our escape. So careful not to ask questions they already know the answers to.
In the living room, the brothers wait. Their silence carries the judgment I deserve.
Rick stands by the window, his broad shoulders rigid under his leather cut. The streetlight catches silver threading through his dark hair—when did that happen? How many worries have I added to the ones that put those strands there?
Chase lounges against the wall, deceptively casual, but I see the tension in his jaw. His hands, which are always in motion, stay unnaturally still. The bandage on his side from the shooting stands stark white against his black T-shirt, reminding me of more sins to confess.
Zane paces, unable to contain his energy even now. His usual playful grin is gone, replaced by something harder. Older. Every few steps, he glances toward the girls’ room.
“They’re finally asleep,” I say softly, closing their door. The words feel inadequate, but someone has to break this silence.
“Looks like they’ve had practice.” Rick’s voice holds no inflection. “Being quiet when running.”
The observation cuts deep because it’s true. My daughters learned stealth before they learned to read.
“Yes.” No point denying it now. “They had to.”
“Had to.” Chase pushes off the wall, moving closer. “Like you had to lie to us? Use our gallery? Use us?”
“Chase.” Rick’s warning comes quiet but firm.
“No, he’s right.” I force myself to meet Chase’s eyes. To face the hurt there. “You deserve the truth. All of it.”
“Which truth?” Zane stops pacing. “Elena’s truth? Evie’s? How many versions are there?”
“Just one.” I sink onto the couch, suddenly exhausted. “One truth. Many lies to protect it.”
They exchange looks—that silent communication that usually warms my heart. Now, it just reminds me of more deception.
“Start at the beginning.” Rick finally turns from the window. In the dim light, his eyes look older. Tired. “The real beginning.”
I touch my collarbone where Chase’s phoenix covers Luca’s name. “I was nineteen when I met him. Young. Stupid. Thought his attention meant love. This is the true story.”
The story spills out like poison, finally draining.
I was too young to know better, too na?ve to see the chains he was already tightening around me. He swept into my life like a prince from a twisted fairy tale—expensive suits, fast cars, effortless charm that made everyone around him lean in. And I fell. Hard.
I was in my first year of college, studying accounting, barely scraping by on scholarships and late-night shifts at a diner. Luca was my escape. He made me feel like I was something more than just a girl struggling to survive.
He sent flowers to my dorm. Bought gifts I could never afford. Took me to places I had no business being in. And when I protested, when I said I didn’t belong in his world, he’d tilt my chin up with those strong fingers and whisper, “You belong wherever I put you, querida.”
“I mistook possession for devotion. He made it so easy to need him. At first, it was small things—encouraging me to skip classes, telling me I didn’t need to work because he could take care of me. Why study when I had him? He framed it like love. Like protection. And when I finally let go of the things that made me independent, he closed the cage. Locked the door.
“I stopped seeing my friends. It happened so slowly that I didn’t even realize it at first. He didn’t like how they looked at me, how they filled my head with ‘nonsense’ about ambition and careers. He’d brush a strand of hair behind my ear and say, ‘I give you everything. Why would you need them?’
“My phone disappeared one day. He said, ‘You don’t need distractions.’ A professor who showed concern mysteriously lost his job. Luca said, ‘He was inappropriate, and I handled it.’ The waitressing job I loved? Gone. He bought the diner and shut it down, saying, ‘Now, you don’t have to work.’ It wasn’t love. It was control. And by the time I saw it for what it was, I had nowhere to go.
“Then came the ring. At nineteen, I walked down an aisle lined with flowers I didn’t pick toward a man I was already terrified of. But I smiled. I kissed him when they told me to. I was already trapped—what was one more shackle?
“The first time he hit me, I was pregnant with Daisy.” My voice catches. “I dropped a glass at dinner. Ruined the tablecloth his mother gave us.”
Chase makes a sound like pain. When I glance up, his hands have curled into fists.
“He apologized after. Bought me diamonds. Said it would never happen again.” A bitter laugh escapes. “It always happened again.”
I tell them about the years of abuse and how Luca controlled every aspect of my life while maintaining his respectable image, how pregnancy gave him more weapons—more ways to ensure my obedience.
“Violet’s birth…” I have to pause and breathe through memories. “He wanted a son. When the doctor said girl, something in him broke. The abuse got worse.”
“Jesus.” Zane’s voice cracks. He moves to sit beside me, not touching but close. Offering support I don’t deserve.
“But he made mistakes.” Steel enters my voice now. “Got careless. Thought I was too broken to fight back.”
I explain about the money, how I learned his systems, passwords, and routines, how I siphoned funds slowly and carefully, and how I built my escape fund while playing dutiful wife.
“Rose helped set up accounts. Used legitimate business to clean what I stole.”
“Rose.” Chase scoffs. “Another liar.”
“She saved us.” The defense comes automatically. “When I had nowhere else to run?—”
“Because you helped her first.” Rick’s interruption surprises me. At my look, he continues, “Draven heard things while they had him. About federal agents and betrayal.”
Of course. More secrets unraveling.
“Yes.” I stare at my hands—steady now, when they should shake. “I helped others escape him first. Women. Children. Rose’s family was one of them.”
“Before she was FBI?” Zane asks quietly.
“During.” The admission costs me. “She told me she was a private investigator, investigating him when?—”
A cry from the bedroom cuts me off. Violet’s voice, high with fear.