Chapter 31 - Poppy
My mother's apartment is smaller than I remembered.
Or maybe I'm just seeing it differently now—seeing the truth beneath the surface I've always accepted.
The three locks on the door, plus a chain.
The way the furniture is arranged to allow quick exits, with clear paths to both the front door and the fire escape.
The curtains that are never fully open, always leaving the interior in shadow.
And there, glimpsed through a closet door left slightly ajar, a packed bag. Ready to go at a moment's notice.
Twenty-five years. She's been living like this for twenty-five years. Running from a man who's been dead almost as long as I've been alive.
"Sit down," my mother says, gesturing toward the small sofa. "I'll make tea."
"Mom—"
"Tea first. Then we'll talk."
She disappears into the kitchen, and I hear the familiar sounds of her ritual—kettle filling, cabinet opening, cups being set on saucers. She's stalling. Buying time to compose herself, to decide how much to reveal.
I sit on the sofa and wait, my hands folded in my lap to hide their trembling.
I've imagined this conversation a thousand times over the years.
Demanded it, sometimes, only to be met with silence or deflection or the same tired lie: Your father was nobody important. A mistake I made when I was young.
Now I know the truth. The question is whether she'll finally admit it.
She returns with two cups of chamomile, handing me one before settling into the armchair across from me. Her hands are shaking too, I notice. Whatever composure she's trying to project, it's not holding.
"You said you wanted to talk about your father." Her voice is carefully neutral. "What do you want to know?"
"Everything." I set down the tea, meeting her eyes. "I know about Dwayne Thomas, Mom. I know who he was, what he did. I know you were running from him."
The color drains from her face. "How did you—"
"It doesn't matter how. What matters is that I know, and I need you to tell me the rest. The truth, this time. All of it."
She stares at me for a long moment, and I watch the walls she's spent decades building start to crumble. Her eyes fill with tears. Her hands shake so badly that she has to set down her cup.
"I never wanted you to know," she whispers. "I spent your whole life trying to protect you from this."
"I know. But I'm not a child anymore, and I need to understand. Please, Mom. Help me understand."
She closes her eyes. Takes a breath. And then, finally, she begins to talk.
"I met Dwayne when I was twenty-two."
Her voice is distant, like she's reading from a script she memorized long ago.
"He was a teacher at St. Augustine's—prestigious school, wealthy families, the kind of place where doors open if you have the right connections.
I was working at a café near the campus.
He came in every afternoon for coffee, and he was.
.. charming. Attentive. Everything a young woman could want. "
"You fell in love with him."
"I thought I did. Or maybe I fell in love with who I thought he was—the version of himself he showed me.
" She shakes her head. "He was so careful at first. So patient.
He took his time, made me feel special, made me believe I was the center of his universe.
By the time I moved in with him, I was completely devoted. "
"When did you find out what he really was?"
Her face tightens. "About eight months into our relationship. Dwayne kept a journal—he was meticulous about it, wrote in it every night before bed. I thought it was charming at first, this disciplined habit of his. I never thought to read it. I respected his privacy."
She pauses, her throat working.
"One night, he left it out on his desk. He'd been called away suddenly—some emergency at the school—and he left in such a hurry that he forgot to lock it away like he usually did.
I wasn't going to read it. I really wasn't. But something caught my eye.
A name I recognized—one of his students who'd come to dinner at our apartment once.
A quiet boy, maybe fifteen. I'd thought he seemed sad. "
"What did the journal say?"
My mother's hands clench in her lap. "Things no person should ever write.
Things no person should ever think. He described what he did to his students—his 'special students,' he called them—in detail.
The way he selected them, broke them down.
He wrote about it like he was proud. Like they were accomplishments. "
My stomach turns. I've seen pages from that journal myself—the ones Zach showed me. I know exactly what she found.
"What did you do?"
"I confronted him. When he came home that night, I told him I'd read the journal.
I told him I knew what he was." She laughs bitterly.
"I expected him to deny it. To make excuses, to try to explain it away.
Instead, he just... smiled. And told me it was none of my concern.
That what he did with his students was between him and them, and I needed to learn to look the other way if I wanted to stay with him. "
"But you didn't look the other way."
"No. I went to the police the next morning."
I stare at her. This is something I didn't know—something Zach never mentioned.
"You went to the police?"
"I told them everything. Showed them the pages I'd copied from his journal." Her voice hardens with old anger. "They were very polite. Very understanding. They took my statement, took the evidence, promised they would investigate thoroughly."
"And?"
"And nothing. A week later, a detective called to tell me the investigation had been closed. Insufficient evidence, he said. The pages I'd provided were inconclusive—could have been fiction, creative writing, nothing that proved any actual crime."
"That's insane. The journal—"
"Was gone. When I went back to Dwayne's apartment to get more evidence, it had vanished.
Along with anything else that might have supported my claims." She meets my eyes.
"That's when I learned what St. Augustine's really was.
What kind of money they had, what kind of connections.
Dwayne wasn't just protected by powerful friends—he was protected by an institution that couldn't afford the scandal.
They paid enough to make the whole thing disappear. "
"And Dwayne knew you'd tried to report him."
"Of course he knew. That's when things got truly dangerous.
" She wraps her arms around herself, suddenly small in her chair.
"He didn't get angry—that wasn't his style.
He was calm, controlled, almost amused. He told me that going to the police had been a mistake.
That I belonged to him now, and I always would.
That if I ever tried to leave, he would find me.
And if I ever tried to report him again. .."
She doesn't finish the sentence. She doesn't have to.
"He stalked me," she continues. "Every time I tried to leave, he found me.
He had connections—powerful people who owed him favors, who helped him track me down.
Once, I made it all the way to another city before he showed up at my door.
He didn't even have to touch me. He just stood there, smiling, and told me that running was pointless. That he would always find me."
"What kind of connections?" I ask carefully.
My mother hesitates. Something flickers across her face—old fear, older than me.
"He used to brag about the people he knew.
Important people. Wealthy families who valued his.
.. discretion. He mentioned names sometimes, when he'd been drinking.
Families who sent their sons to St. Augustine's.
" Her voice drops. "The Ambroses, among others. "
My heart stops.
"I don't know how well he knew them. But he talked about them like they were gods—untouchable, above the law. He said the Ambrose family was one of the pillars of St. Augustine's. Donors, board members, the kind of people whose children got special treatment."
I can't breathe. Can't think. "How did you finally get away?"
"I found out I was pregnant."
The words land like stones. I knew this part—knew I was the catalyst for her escape—but hearing her say it makes it real in a way it wasn't before.
"When I realized I was carrying you, something changed.
I wasn't just afraid for myself anymore—I was afraid for you.
I couldn't let my child grow up in that house, with that man.
" She wipes her eyes. "So I planned. For months, I pretended everything was normal.
Let him think I'd accepted my situation. And then, I ran."
"How did you manage to do it?"
"I'd been preparing in secret—saving money, gathering documents, planning our route.
One night, while Dwayne was at one of his school events, I packed what I could carry and drove until I couldn't drive anymore.
I changed our name later. Used my mother's maiden name.
Became Linda Rivers instead of Linda Marsh. "
She looks around the apartment—at the locks, the packed bag, the shadows that never fully lift. "Twenty-five years. I've spent twenty-five years looking over my shoulder, waiting for him to find us."
"But he never did."
"No. He never did." She shakes her head slowly. "I always wondered why. He was so obsessive, so determined. I couldn't understand how he just... let us go."
This is the moment. The truth she doesn't know, the truth that will change everything.
"He didn't let you go, Mom." My voice comes out steadier than I expected. "He was killed. About three months after we disappeared."
My mother goes completely still. "What?"
"Dwayne Thomas is dead. He's been dead for almost twenty-five years. One of his students—one of his victims—killed him."
She stares at me, her face cycling through emotions I can barely track. Shock. Disbelief. Dawning realization.
"Dead," she whispers. "He's been dead all this time?"
"Yes."