Chapter 34
THIRTY-FOUR
ANNIKA
I stare at the final score longer than I should, like if I look hard enough I can feel what it was like to be there. Imagining running into his arms after the game and him twirling me around in victory.
Now who’s the hopeless romantic?
Parker would think I was a body double if he heard my thoughts. I’m not the romantic one.
But when I close the computer and the noise is gone, my thoughts race to what I wish I would’ve said. “I love you Parker.” I wish I could rewind time.
But I never would have met Parker if all these bad things didn’t happen. I wouldn’t even be in America.
My thumbs hover over my phone before I give in and text him.
Me: Great game. Wish I was there.
The message sits there, stretching the seconds into minutes until I regret sending it at all. This is what vulnerability feels like—quiet, exposed, and entirely out of my control.
And I despise being out of control.
Sometime later…
Parker: Thanks…
Well that was short. He’s playing it safe, keeping his distance.
I force the knock against my chest to stop by breathing. I’m not backing down. Not this time.
Me: I mean it. You looked like you again.
Three dots disappear and come back.
Parker: Didn’t feel like it at first.
I could see it without being there, that first pass.
The drop.
The hesitation.
The doubt, trying to crawl its way in.
Me: You reset.
A longer pause. Is he trying to kill me?
Parker: Yeah.
Then more words pop up.
Parker: I wish you were here too. There’s so much I want to say.
My breath catches, something fragile and hopeful blooming in my gut where there’s been nothing but tension for a week. I close my eyes for a second before typing again, careful about the words I choose.
Me: Can we have a session? At the rink?
This time there’s no delay.
Parker: Yeah.
Relief loosens the pain, the guilt, and the unknown.
Parker: When?
Me: Tuesday?
Parker: I can be there by seven.
Me: Parker. This is a session for me, not you.
The cursor blinks. I don’t know how to say what needs to be said, so I don’t. Not yet.
Me: Thank you.
There’s a pause before his response comes through.
Parker: Tuesday.
My lips press together, but there’s something softer around the edge of his words. I can feel that something has changed with Parker. But I don’t know what.
For the first time since last Sunday, I don’t cry myself to sleep. Instead, I think of all I need to do before Parker and I meet at the rink.
My to-do list is a mile long on Monday. Two appointments in the office and then I meet Witt outside a small café just a few miles from the stadium.
The kind of place that oozes ambition and smells like espresso.
He’s already hunched over his laptop, fingers moving in quick succession like he needs to solve a problem only he understands.
“You’re late,” he says without looking up.
“I’m two minutes early.”
He glances at his fancy Rolex watch. “You’re late in my world.”
I don’t argue because I remember spouting the exact same line to his brother. Except Parker was usually late. Instead, I sit across from him, holding my hands together to stop the nerves.
“Do you have it?”
He nods once, closing his laptop and pushing a thin folder from his side to mine. “The attorneys in Novadia who are representing the new victim that’s come forward.”
Victim.
“She was on your team,” he adds. His eyes flit to mine before darting back at the folder. “You might remember her even though she’s older than you by two years. You were quite the phenom. Must have been hard to give up.”
I nod, already knowing who he means before I even open the contents.
Katya.
The memory hits fast and uninvited.
She was always loud, gregarious, and confident in a way I never allowed myself to be because my dad always said I wasn’t quite good enough.
Katya was the kind of girl who laughed too hard and skated faster than anyone expected her to, like she had something to prove every time she stepped on the ice.
She would braid my hair before games saying it made me look less terrifying. I was never sure if that was a compliment.
I hadn’t realized that I’d stopped remembering her, but now I recall her not showing up to a game, then missing practices and Dad said, “Katya quit. She’s not good enough to be on this team.”
But she was good enough, better than most of us.
“What else do I need to know?” I ask quietly.
“She came forward recently,” Witt says. “It’s a new case so that’s why things are moving again.”
My throat constricts, and I force myself to speak. “Thanks, Witt. I didn’t know where else to turn and your family seems to think you’re a hacking genius so… thanks.”
“Ahh, this was easy, some information was behind a firewall but it’s their fault for not protecting it better. You’ll see what she’s accusing your dad of,” he says matter-of-factly.
He looks at me like my face is a research project. I begin to squirm in my seat.
“You’re going to testify,” he states.
It’s not a question.
“Yes.”
For the first time since I’ve known Witt, his expression softens. “Good,” he says.
I wonder if that means he’s proud of me or that Parker will be. Or is telling the truth one hundred percent of the time an O’Ryan family trait?
“Thanks, Witt. You didn’t have to do this for someone who…”
He pushes back from the table, throws his laptop in his backpack, and leaves with his coffee in hand.
“Who my brother loves? Yes I did.”
Parker must tell his family everything. And this is Witt’s way of helping Parker, not necessarily me.
I scurry back to my office to call the attorney before I chicken out. It feels as if I’m stepping off a ledge into the unknown. There’s no easing into it. No way to soften what has happened to me and the others.
Sitting at my desk with the door closed and the phone pressed to my ear, I hear my heart beating too fast for something that hasn’t even happened yet.
The receptionist answers in our native language but when she puts me through the female attorney says, “Annika, we were hoping you would reach out.”
Hoping.
My hope is that I can help undo a little bit of the damage I’ve done. She asks a few questions then I explain more of my memories. Not everything but enough that the attorney understands I’m calling to be a witness.
I’m calling to take responsibility.
There are forms and processes. Legal steps that feel clinical compared to the weight of the crimes. By the time I hang up, my hands are trembling.
But the process is steadying. Taking action feels like you're in control. And for the first time in my life, I’m moving towards justice instead of running away.
The deposition is scheduled quickly. Too quickly. Tomorrow.
They want to get me on record in case I change my mind and who could blame them?
Downtown Austin seems different when you’re walking into an office that can change everything. The buildings stretch higher, the streets narrower like the world is closing in with each step.
The law office is polished and quiet, all glass walls and sharp edges, not a magazine out of place or a fast-food cup in sight.
The paralegal invites me into the conference room and offers me coffee or water from a glass pitcher sitting in the middle of the table.
Two male attorneys file in, looking like the models on the covers of billionaire romance books. Ties sitting straight against their chests, one button open on their suits, and watches that cost more than my four years of college combined. And that’s not an exaggeration.
But somehow it makes me feel like I’m in good hands. They know what they’re doing.
The dark-haired one with gray eyes, introduces the firm and his co-workers then goes on to tell me how the deposition works. There will be an attorney for the defendant on the call as well as the prosecution.
Nerves skitter up my spine.
“Oh… I didn’t know that.”
The attorney with the light brown wavy hair says, “We’re representing you, pro bono.”
Why do I need an attorney?
I can tell they’re a well-oiled machine as they follow up on each other’s questions, slowly revealing they have their golden goose. Me.
“The woman’s attorney you spoke with yesterday will also be on video. Just tell the truth and answer the questions honestly as you remember them. We’ll go through all the testimony first, before the deposition begins. Any questions?” The dark haired one asks.
The paralegal hands them each a file folder and turns on the recorder. They ask my name. I answer, “Anna Morrow.”
One asks, “Was that your name at the time of the events in question?”
“No sir. Annika Penchenski.”
He presses his lips together and they continue questioning me with recorder’s light flashing red, as it records. It feels like it’s capturing more than my words—it’s capturing me.
Every hesitation.
Every pause.
Every truth I’ve spent years avoiding.
By the time it’s over, my muscles are sore like I’ve run a marathon without moving an inch.
Breathing heavily, I collapse with relief, knowing the first step is behind me. I look in the backseat, my hockey gear staring back at me and I’m ready for the next one.
Meet Parker.
The rink is empty when I arrive and I let the cool air wrap around me in a way that settles into my heart. The scent of ice and metal makes my memories hit all at once. On the ice is where I always felt free and where I learned to harness control, power and speed.
I change into my skates and step onto the rubber mat, my gaze lifting toward the ice. My heart starts to race, not from fear but anticipation.
For Parker. For this moment.
Moving toward the boards, my fingers brush the cool surface as I exhale wondering if he’ll show. Maybe he changed his mind. This is where we fix things between us.
Or where it shatters like glass into a million pieces.
The door to the rink opens behind me. I spin on my blades, and I can hardly breathe while everything stops.
Because it’s not just Parker standing there.