Chapter 54
W ith Jonathan’s concerns gnawing at the edges of my thoughts, I ask Donna to come over the next afternoon while he heads out on business. There’s a tension in my chest I can’t shake — like something vital is about to snap.
As soon as she steps through the front door, I don't even give her time to take her coat off.
“Please tell me you’ve got something,” I say. “Something we can use.”
She raises an eyebrow at me, but there’s no bite behind it. Just tired understanding.
“Oh, honey,” she says, exasperated but kind. “Do you even remember who you’re talking to?”
“Then quit edging me and cut to the damn chase,” I huff, though my voice lacks its usual fire. My nerves are frayed raw.
Donna grins—sharp and unapologetic, just like always. “Some things never change.”
She settles in, flipping open her laptop with a flourish. “I started with Lily’s birth certificate. No father listed, but the hospital was in Belfast. That led me down the rabbit hole of old hospital staff logs, cross-referencing birth records, background reports... and then I found this.”
She turns the screen toward me.
I freeze.
The air disappears from the room. The blood in my veins turns to ice.
Because there, staring back at me in black and white, is a man I’ve spent every waking moment trying to forget.
My sister’s rapist. Her killer.
And beside him—Jen. A much younger Jen, barely more than a girl herself, with a swollen belly and vacant eyes.
“Oh my God,” I gasp. The words feel foreign, like someone else is saying them. My legs buckle, and I grab the back of the nearest chair to stay upright.
“I know,” Donna says, her voice softening. “She was so young—too young.”
“No, Donna… it’s not that.” My voice breaks. “I know that man.”
She goes still, brows knitting together. “You what ?”
I can’t answer.
I push away from the table, panic clawing at my chest. Pacing the length of the room like a caged animal, I fight the rising tide of nausea. Every beat of my heart feels like it’s thudding against something hollow.
The past is no longer buried—it’s clawing its way up, screaming.
“Helen—breathe,” Donna says urgently. “Come on, you’ve got to breathe. Don’t you dare pass out on me. If you make me tell Jonathan I broke you, he’ll kill me. Then Jack will kill him. And then the kids will kill all of us. Is that what you want?”
A breathless laugh escapes me despite the tremor in my hands. I collapse onto the couch beside her, head in my hands. My lungs feel like they’ve been wrapped in barbed wire.
“He was Freya’s owner,” I whisper.
Silence crashes between us. Donna goes completely still.
“Holy shit.”
“Yeah.”
“Jesus, Helen…” she breathes, her voice low and stunned. “This is going to change everything.”
“I know.”
“We have to tell them.”
“Have you told Jack?”
“Not yet. I wasn’t sure you’d believe me until you saw it. But now... God, Helen. What if Ciaran doesn’t know who she really is? What if none of them do? That photo... It’s damning. Doesn’t matter what the truth behind it is—it’s enough to burn everything to the ground.”
“Ciaran needs to know,” I murmur, each word a lead weight in my mouth. “And Lily... what if she has no idea? What if she’s just collateral in all this?”
“That’s what scares me most,” Donna admits. “She’s just a kid. But she’s tied to this now—by blood, by proximity. And if Jen’s up to something, it might already be too late.”
“I’ll talk to him tonight.”
After she leaves, I pull myself together and head to Cora’s house—desperate for a moment of normalcy, some kind of emotional anchor.
Lily opens the door, beaming, with April perched happily on her hip. She greets me with a laugh, her cheeks flushed, completely unaware of the inferno that’s coming.
I try to match her energy. I really do. But my mind keeps spinning.
Does she know what her mother’s done? Is that why she’s afraid of her? Or is she just another girl who’s never had a real chance?
I look at her—so young, so warm—and all I can do is hope.
Hope that when the truth comes out, she isn’t the one who pays for it.
Because if I’ve learned anything... it’s that the sins of the parent have a long reach.
And too often, it’s the children who bleed.