Jenny
Poppy didn’t say a word while we packed up.
Not when we left the diner, not when we got back on the road, not even when Liam stopped at a gas station to grab water and snacks.
She just sat in the back seat, her hands clenched in her lap like she was holding herself together by force.
Finally, she whispered, “He’s coming, isn’t he?”
I twisted around. “Sweetheart—”
“I saw him,” she said suddenly.
My heart stopped. “What?”
“At the carnival.” Her voice cracked. “I thought maybe I was wrong, but… I saw him by the rides. He was looking right at me. I knew it was him.”
I reached for her hand, my stomach dropping into my shoes.
Why hadn’t she said something last night?
Because she was thirteen years old and terrified. That’s why.