Chapter 72
NOW
Bennett
I don’t sleep.
My dad is in the kitchen when I come downstairs, head bent over his phone, laptop open. I’m almost sure he never went to sleep. He’s wearing his glasses, which he only wears when his eyes are irritated.
“Bennett,” he says, eyes snapping up at the sound of my entrance. “You okay?”
“Fine,” I slip the word out, just barely.
He nods, eyes darting back down to the papers in front of him as I ask, “Did you know? About Ethan. Is that why you never liked him?”
My dad heaves a sigh, his features sinking in exhaustion. He’s always looked young and vibrant to me, but now he seems older. Serious in a way I haven’t seen in a long time.
“Not exactly. I didn’t know everything for sure, but I had a gut feeling about him. That—and a few of my early interactions with Paloma . . . she seemed scared of me.”
Another thing I missed.
“Are those all about Paloma?” I ask, gesturing to the brown manila folders spread and stacked precariously across the countertop that he’s set up as his workspace. I wonder briefly why he’s not in his office.
“No. Just this one.” He nods and holds up the thickest one. “The rest are from Alessia. She’s been busy.”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s kept tabs on Ethan—at least since Paloma came to her at sixteen, through a women’s shelter referral.
As usual with offenders like him, where there’s one victim, there’s a trail.
So many who came forward, only to be shut down or have their cases closed with no real help.
It’s . . . god, Ben. It’s bad.” He shuffles a few of the folders and breathes, head in his hands.
“These are all the girls who agreed to come forward, testify—I’m sure there are more we don’t know about and possibly never will. ”
My dad sounds furious, angry—never one to hide his emotions. I stay silent, nauseous and unable to think of anything to add.
“Where’s Alessia?”
“She’s sleeping in my room.” Adam sighs. “At least, hopefully. But I doubt she’s gonna sleep until she sets her eyes on Paloma again.” His hands dust over the top of Paloma’s file. “It’s . . . it’s worse than I thought. She’s going to need us, Ben.”
A wave of pure pain buckles my knees. My hands grip onto the counter harshly—enough that I jostle the file and a few loose items fly across the floor.
I reach down but pause and sink to my knees at the small, worn photograph between my thumb and forefinger.
Paloma—I know it’s her, but she can’t be more than five or six years old.
She has pigtails and her favorite stuffed rabbit, though in the photo it’s still bright and new, no missing threads or lopsided stuffing.
She’s grinning at the camera, but her eyes look almost worried.
Like this was the moment things started to change.
I don’t realize I’m crying until my dad’s hand on my arm makes me jump, body sliding away from him with a gasping breath.
He kneels next to me, eyes wide, hands settling on my shoulders. “Breathe, Bennett. Breathe.”
I try to. But I can’t stop feeling it. Seeing it all, over and over again.
Her—in her dorm room, trying to make something new.
The things she let slip, the small comments that had made me look twice at her, but I’d let them all go.
Because I just wanted to be near her. And instead, I’d only caused her more pain.
Because I wasn’t paying attention, to see what was happening. What I allowed to happen.
“It’s not your fault,” my dad says.
My eyes slip into a glare, fury radiating off me, as I push to stand, shoving him away. “Yeah? I brought her face to face with the man who fucking abused her for years and . . . what? I’m just supposed to live with that?”
His eyes shutter, his own torrent of emotions nearly slipping through.
“You have to figure out a way past that guilt, Bennett. You couldn’t have known. She didn’t tell you—”
“She didn’t tell me because she was scared. And I just let it fucking happen.”
“You didn’t—”
“I don’t wanna talk about it right now,” I grit out, almost flushed with the panicked feelings swirling through me. “Just tell me you’re taking care of it.”
He wrestles for a moment over what to say before brushing a hand through his hair. “Yes. Of course, Bennett. I’m doing everything I can to make sure Ethan Marks pays for everything he did. And I’m trying my hardest to keep her out of it.”
My nostrils flare. “You have to. Don’t—please, don’t make her see him again.”
My dad nods, eyes red as he rubs at them again. He looks years’ worth of exhausted. “I’m trying, Bennett. Please . . .” His words trail off. “You have to trust me with this.”
A long silence settles between us, heavy with tension. I nod.
“Do you want some coffee? Or I can clear out of here if you want some space to cook?”
I shake my head.
“All right,” he says, a little stiff. Awkward. Words I’d never use to describe my dad. “I’ll just—I’m going to shower, and I’ll be right back.”
Another wave of guilt rolls through me. A few years ago, it wouldn’t have been like this between us, tension stretching, anxiety swirling. My dad would’ve hugged me already and not second-guessed his instincts when it came to what I needed from him.
But it’s my fault. I did this to us, pushing him away. Making our entire situation wrong and painful.
The same way you did to Paloma, huh?
My stomach rolls again. But this time with something different—a strong emotion that has my throat clogged, my hand rubbing my eyes to hide the well of tears.
Grief. For time lost with my dad. With Paloma.
Stumbling, I step toward the stairs and back into my room, as quiet as I can be. Seven is still asleep at Paloma’s side, and she’s curled around him in my absence.
She’s so beautiful, and so deeply sad. Each of her tears feels like ripping my fingernails out, the pain just as great as the compulsion to do something so punishing.
How did I miss it? What is so fucking wrong with me that I couldn’t fix this? Couldn’t take care of her?
Wrong, wrong, wrong—I should’ve known.
She takes in another deep, rattling breath, like a leftover sob leaking into her sleep. I clench my fist.
Everyone I’ve ever loved has only faced demons I can’t win against—nothing physical I can lay my anger and fear into. Only things I was too late to stop. Rhys and his panic, his anxiety. My dad and his self-inflicted solitude. My mother and her self-hatred, her unsettled fear of loneliness.
Paloma.
I look at her now and I can see her as that little girl.
The photo of her in the fucking case file—five years old with lopsided pigtails and mismatched bows.
And the velveteen rabbit in her grip. I can see her at fifteen, confused and scared and threatened by someone who was meant to protect her.
Abandoned by everyone else. I can see her at eighteen, remember her beneath my hands, wonder-eyed as we touched for the first time.
Falling in love with me, so much more experienced and yet not—no one had ever held her with care.
Does she believe I abandoned her to rot in her own self-hatred? That I stood by while she hurt herself with guilt and pain, thinking that she wasn’t worth the battle?
Why can’t I get this fucking right? Why can’t I save just one of them?
I feel like I’m drowning, only this time I don’t want to come back up for air.
I feel like a failure—on the verge of a panic attack.
Breathe. I try to listen to the voice that sounds like a warbled mix of Dr. Anya and my dad. Make a list.
1.I failed Paloma. I brought her worst nightmare back into her life.
2.Paloma is still asleep in my room, for now.
3.My dad noticed something was wrong. I didn’t. I failed him and her.
4.Rhys barely came back, and I had no hand in that. He did better without me bringing him down. Is Paloma the same?
There’s only one conclusion: Everyone is hurting and I’m only making it worse.