Chapter Thirty-Four
Katrina
His parting words hung heavy in the air between us, devastating and impossible.
I wanted to say something. Wanted to tell him I loved him too, that I was terrified, that I didn’t know how to reconcile the man who protected my daughter with the man who’d beaten his wife.
But the words stuck in my throat, trapped behind the weight of everything I’d learned tonight.
My hand lifted, just an inch, just enough to reach toward him before I caught myself and let it fall back to my side.
Derek didn’t wait for a response. He opened the door and stepped out without looking back.
My body moved before my mind could stop it.
I pressed my forehead against the window, my palm flat against the cold glass, watching as he walked to his truck.
The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the driveway, stretching his silhouette thin and fragile.
He climbed into the driver’s seat, and for a moment he sat there with his hands on the steering wheel, his head bowed.
Call him back, something inside me screamed. Run after him. Tell him to stay.
But my feet wouldn’t move. My voice wouldn’t work.
Then the engine roared to life.
The headlights cut through the fading daylight as he backed out.
I watched him drive away, the truck growing smaller as it moved down the road; the sun sinking lower on the horizon, painting everything in shades of amber and rust. My breath fogged the glass.
I didn’t move until the truck disappeared completely, swallowed by distance and twilight.
The house felt impossibly quiet.
I locked the door, my hands shaking so badly I could barely turn the deadbolt. The click echoed through the empty living room, final and absolute.
I stood there in the dark, my back pressed against the door, and tried to breathe. My chest felt too tight. My lungs wouldn’t expand properly. The air came in shallow gasps that didn’t seem to reach deep enough.
Derek is Frankie’s biological father.
The thought crashed over me like a wave, pulling me under.
Frankie has known since she was two years old and never told me.
Another wave. Harder this time. My knees buckled.
Derek hurt Sam.
Derek killed Marsha Wade.
Jack and Sam hired Slyce to find us without telling me.
Everyone knew. Everyone kept secrets.
The revelations kept coming, one after another, until I couldn’t tell where one ended and another began. My chest tightened. My lungs refused to expand properly. I slid down the door until I was sitting on the floor, my knees pulled to my chest.
How many secrets were there? How many lies by omission? How many people in my life had looked me in the eye and decided I couldn’t handle the truth?
Sam knew Derek was Frankie’s father and said nothing.
Jack knew and said nothing.
Frankie knew and said nothing.
Derek knew and said nothing.
My hands were shaking. My whole body trembled. I pressed my palms against my eyes, trying to stop the tears, but they came anyway, hot and angry and desperate.
I’d spent years trying to protect my daughter. Years running, hiding, building a life where she’d be safe. And the whole time, the people I was learning to trust were keeping secrets that could destroy everything.
But they were protecting you too, a small voice whispered in the back of my mind.
I shoved it away.
Protection didn’t look like lies. Protection didn’t look like violence. Protection didn’t look like—
“Mom?”
The small voice cut through the darkness.
I looked up and saw Frankie standing at the mouth of the hallway, her hair messy from sleep. Her eyes wide and worried, uncertain in a way that made her look younger than twelve.
“Sweetheart.” I tried to wipe my face, tried to pull myself together. “What are you doing up?”
“I heard yelling.” She took a tentative step closer, then stopped, as if she wasn’t sure she was allowed. “Where’s Derek?”
The question hit me like a punch to the gut.
“He left,” I said quietly.
“Because you told him to?”
I nodded, unable to speak.
Frankie crossed the room and sat down on the floor beside me. She didn’t say anything at first, just sat there, her shoulder pressed against mine, her head on my shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered finally.
“For what?”
“For not telling you.” Her voice was so small. “About Derek. About remembering him.”
I turned to look at her. Even in the darkness, I could see the tears on her cheeks, the way her hands twisted together in her lap.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked, trying to keep my voice gentle even though my heart was breaking. “Why did you keep it a secret?”
Frankie wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “Because I was scared.”
“Scared of what?”
“That you’d say no.” She looked down at her hands. “That you’d keep us apart. That you’d...” Her voice broke. “That you’d make us move again.”
The words cut deeper than I expected.
“Frankie—”
“I remembered him, Mom.” Her voice cracked. “I remembered his voice.” She pulled her knees to her chest, mirroring my position. “When he came to fix the sink, I knew. I knew it was him. His eyes were the same. His voice was the same. And I just… I wanted to know him. I wanted him to stay.”
My throat tightened. “So you didn’t tell me.”
“You were already talking about leaving,” she said quietly.
“You didn’t want to stay. And I thought if I told you he was my dad, that he was here, it would scare you.
I thought if I just waited, if I gave you time to see how good he was, then maybe.
..” She broke off, her voice dissolving into tears.
I pulled her into my arms, holding her tight against my chest. She sobbed into my shoulder, and I felt my own tears start again.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered over and over. “I’m sorry, Mom. I’m so sorry.”
“Shh.” I stroked her hair. “It’s okay. It’s okay, baby.”
We sat there on the floor in the dark, holding each other while we both cried. I didn’t know how long we stayed like that. Long enough for the tears to slow. Long enough for my breathing to steady. Long enough for the worst of the panic to recede, leaving only exhaustion in its wake.
Finally, Frankie pulled back and looked at me. Her face was blotchy and red, her eyes swollen.
“Why can’t you let him in?” she asked.
The question was so direct, so painfully honest, that I didn’t know how to answer.
“It’s complicated,” I said finally.
“Because he hurt someone?”
I nodded slowly. “Yes.”
“Sam told you what happened, didn’t she?” Frankie asked. “About Derek and her?”
“She told me some of it.” I took a shaky breath. “That’s not something I can just—”
“But she forgave him,” Frankie interrupted. “She said he changed. She said he’s not that person anymore.”
“I know what she said.” My voice came out sharper than I intended. “But that doesn’t mean—”
“You’re scared,” Frankie said quietly.
I looked at her, surprised by the observation.
“I’m terrified,” I admitted.
Frankie was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “Derek would never hurt me.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do.” Her voice was firm. “I know it the same way I know you’d never hurt me. The same way I know the sun’s going to come up tomorrow. He would die before he let anything happen to me, Mom. I know that.”
I wanted to argue. Wanted to tell her she was too young to understand that the world was more complicated than she realized. But the conviction in her voice stopped me.
“Mom?” Frankie’s voice was small again, almost frightened. “I heard you and Derek talking about Marsha.”
My stomach dropped. I’d been so caught up in my anger that I hadn’t realized she was listening.
“Yes, baby.”
“Is she...” Frankie’s voice trembled. “Is she looking for us? Is that why Derek was so angry?”
I pulled her close, understanding now why she’d been so quiet. All this time, we’d been living with the fear that Marsha might find us, might try to take her back.
“No, sweetheart. She’s not looking for you. She can’t.”
“Why not?” Frankie pulled back to look at me, her eyes wide with a fear I recognized because I’d carried it with me every single day.
I took a deep breath. “Because she’s dead, Frankie. Marsha Wade is dead.”
Frankie’s body went rigid. “How?”
“She kidnapped Charlie. Jack and Sam’s daughter. She wanted to keep her; she saw her as a replacement for you. She pulled a gun on Derek when he wouldn’t go along with it, and in the struggle—” I paused, my voice steadying. “She was shot and died.”
Frankie was quiet for a long moment, processing. Then something shifted in her posture, her shoulders dropped, her breathing deepened. It was like watching a weight lift that I hadn’t fully understood she was carrying.
“So she can’t come looking for me?” she said finally, her voice shaking but different now, relief mixing with the fear. “She can’t try to take me away?”
“No, baby. She can’t. Derek made sure of that.”
“He protected Charlie,” Frankie said slowly. “The same way he protected me from Richard.”
I nodded, unable to speak past the lump in my throat.
“You always tell me people deserve a second chance,” Frankie said. “You always say people can change and grow if they work hard enough. That mistakes don’t define us forever.”
“I know what I said—”
“So why doesn’t Derek get a second chance?” Her eyes met mine, clear and direct. “Why doesn’t he get to prove he’s changed?”
The question hung in the air between us.
“Because I’m scared,” I whispered. “Because what if I’m wrong? What if he hasn’t changed? What if I let him in and he hurts you?”
“What if you don’t let him in and we lose the best thing that’s ever happened to us?” Frankie countered. “What if you’re so scared of being hurt that you push away someone who actually loves us?”
I stared at my daughter, stunned by her wisdom.
“Maybe you should talk to someone,” Frankie said quietly. “Like Haizley. Derek goes to therapy. Maybe you should too.”
The suggestion was so gentle, so carefully offered, that I felt tears prick my eyes again.
“Maybe I should,” I agreed softly.
Frankie leaned her head against my shoulder. “I love him, Mom. I know that’s probably scary for you to hear, but I do. He’s my dad. And I think... I think you love him too.”
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer. Because she was right.
“Come on,” I said finally, standing up and offering her my hand. “Let’s get you back to bed.”
Frankie took my hand and let me pull her to her feet. We walked down the hall together, and I tucked her into bed the way I had when she was little.
“Mom?” she said as I turned to leave.
“Yeah, baby?”
“It’s going to be okay.” She said it with such certainty, such absolute faith, that I almost believed her.
“Goodnight, Frankie.”
“Goodnight, Mom. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
I closed her door and stood in the hallway, listening to the quiet house around me. Everything felt different now. Heavier. More complicated.
But somewhere beneath the devastation and fear, there was something else. Something small and fragile.
Hope.
Not the easy kind. Not the kind that promised everything would work out perfectly. But the kind that whispered maybe, just maybe, I could try one more time. Maybe I could risk being wrong again. Maybe the cost of walking away would be higher than the cost of staying.
I didn’t know what I was going to do. Didn’t know if I could forgive Derek for keeping the truth from me. Didn’t know if I could trust him, or myself, enough to let him back in. Didn’t know if opening that door would lead to healing or to more heartbreak.
But for the first time since he’d walked out that door, I thought there might be a path forward.
Even if I had no idea what that path looked like yet. Even if every step would require more courage than I thought I had. Even if trying again meant risking everything I’d fought so hard to protect.
Maybe that was what hope really meant: not certainty, but willingness. Not knowing but choosing anyway.