7. Olivia #2
"I'm so sorry, sweetheart." Marsha's voice came from somewhere distant, filtered through the ringing in my ears. "I found out this afternoon. I came as soon as I could."
No. No. No.
My hands were shaking. I pressed them flat against my thighs but couldn't make them stop.
"He—" My throat closed. "He can't. They sentenced him. Fifteen years. At least. He's supposed to—"
"Your mother recanted her statement."
The words hit like a physical blow.
Nausea surged up my throat. I swallowed hard, tasting bile, fighting the urge to double over and vomit on Marsha's shoes.
"She what?"
"Yesterday morning." Marsha's tone stayed carefully even, practiced and professional, even though her eyes betrayed her fury. "She went to the prosecutor's office. Said she'd lied. That her original testimony was coerced. That she was afraid and confused and didn't remember things clearly."
My vision blurred. Memories clawed up from the place I'd buried them—screaming, blood on kitchen tile, my mother's face swollen beyond recognition, the way she'd whispered tell them the truth through broken teeth.
She promised.
"Her testimony combined with yours was the foundation of the case," Marsha continued, each word landing like broken glass. "Without it, the prosecution doesn't have enough evidence to maintain the conviction."
"But I—" My voice cracked. "I testified. I was there. I saw—"
"You were a child." Marsha's hands tightened into fists. "Defense argued your memories were unreliable. Influenced by trauma. They claimed your mother's recantation proved their case—that everything was exaggerated or misremembered."
Betrayal burned through my chest, white-hot and suffocating.
She'd promised. Held my hand in that sterile courtroom and promised we'd keep each other safe. That telling the truth meant he couldn't hurt us anymore.
Liar.
"I'm afraid she was pressured," Marsha said quietly. "I don't think she wanted to do this, Liv. I think he got to her somehow. Through someone. A lawyer, a family member—someone convinced her or threatened her or—"
"When?"
The question came out flat. Dead.
Marsha's face crumpled slightly. "Three weeks. Maybe less. The paperwork is already moving."
Three weeks.
I had three weeks before the man who'd shattered my childhood walked free.
Three weeks before he could find me.
"This is a joke." My voice came out strangled. Desperate. "Tell me this is a joke."
Marsha shook her head slowly. "I wish it was, sweetheart. But the paperwork's already filed. The appeal was granted yesterday afternoon."
Something inside me cracked.
Not broke—I'd been broken before, knew what that felt like. This was different. Sharper. Like watching the foundation of a house you'd spent years rebuilding crumble back into rubble.
Rage surged first. Hot and bitter and so intense my hands curled into fists before I could stop them. She promised. My mother had looked me in the eye and sworn we'd both stay safe. That telling the truth meant freedom for both of us.
Fear chased the rage—cold and suffocating, flooding through my veins until I couldn't feel my fingers. He'll find me. He always found things he wanted to destroy. Always knew how to track down what tried to escape him.
And underneath both emotions, helplessness wrapped around my ribs like a vice. I'd done everything right. Left. Started over. Built something clean and separate from all that blood and screaming.
For nothing.
"Why?" The word scraped out of my throat. "Why would she take it back? Why now?"
"I don't know." Marsha's expression twisted with something that looked like shared fury. "But I intend to find out."
My thoughts spiraled faster than I could catch them.
I just got out. I just—one week. One week of feeling safe.
He'll come here. He'll find this address. He'll—
What did he promise her? What did he threaten? How did he reach her from inside?
Why does she always choose him?
The numbness hit suddenly. Completely.
Like someone had flipped a switch and shut down every emotion flooding through me, replaced it all with static. My hands stopped shaking. My breathing evened out. The panic receded into something distant and manageable.
I knew this feeling. Recognized it from childhood—the way my brain protected itself when things got too big to process. Shut everything down. Went cold and blank and functional.
Survival mode.
"Liv?" Marsha leaned forward, worry creasing her features. "Sweetheart, talk to me."
"I'm fine." The words came out mechanical. "What do I need to do?"
"First—" Marsha's tone shifted into the careful gentleness she used when I'd gone too still. "First, we need to make sure you're safe. Is there anyone you can stay with? Anyone at all?"
"No."
The answer came immediately. Automatic.
I had no family—not real family, not the kind that showed up when things fell apart. No friends I trusted enough to drag into this mess. Ben seemed nice, but I'd known him five days. Jenna had her own life, her own problems.
I'm alone.
The thought should've hurt more than it did.
"Then stay with me." Marsha reached for my hand. "My spare room is yours. We'll figure this out together."
"No." I pulled away gently but firmly. "I can't."
"Liv—"
"I won't put you in danger." My voice stayed flat, emotionless, but the resolve underneath ran bone-deep. "You've done enough. Too much. I'm not dragging you into this."