Chapter 16
Sarah
I couldn’t sleep.
My brain gave up on rest and chose to spiral instead—replaying Lily’s face at the studio like a video I couldn’t pause. I’d watched her react to trauma in real time, watched her small body curl into itself while camera flashes went off outside.
Around midnight, I found myself scrolling through articles on childhood trauma and selective mutism, trying to understand what was happening in Lily’s brain when she shut down like that.
One article mentioned PTSD triggers in children who’d witnessed accidents—how sounds and lights could pull them back to the original trauma without warning, how the brain couldn’t distinguish past danger from present safety when those triggers hit.
I thought about the reporters, the flashing cameras, the shouting.
What had Lily’s accident really been like? I knew her mother had died, knew it had been a car crash, but I’d never looked up the details. Never felt like it was my place to go digging into their private tragedy.
But maybe understanding it would help me help her better.
I opened my laptop and typed Joana Valdez into the search bar, then hesitated. It felt invasive—like cracking open someone’s diary without permission.
But I was her therapist—sort of—and understanding her trauma wasn’t nosiness; it was part of helping her.
I hit enter.
The first results were restaurant reviews and food blog posts about Hector’s restaurants, mentions of “the late Joana Valdez” in profiles about his career. I scrolled past those to the news articles from two years ago.
Prominent Chef’s Wife Dies in Crash, Daughter Survives
I clicked on it. The article was short, written in that clipped news style that made tragedy sound like a weather report: two-car collision. Joana Valdez was pronounced dead at the scene, daughter Lily transported to hospital with minor injuries, and the other driver also deceased.
I sat up straighter. Minor injuries meant Lily had been conscious—had probably seen everything.
No wonder the cameras had sent her into a panic.
I clicked on another article, this one with photos—Hector in a black suit looking like someone had hollowed him out and left just the shell, Lily beside him in a dark dress with her small hand in his, her face completely expressionless.
My chest ached looking at it.
More articles loaded: pictures of the memorial service where hundreds of people had shown up, quotes from other chefs calling Joana “the heart of the family” and “an incredible mother.”
I kept scrolling, looking for information about the accident itself. Most articles focused on Joana and the tragedy of a young mother dying, a talented chef losing his wife. The other driver was barely mentioned—just “intoxicated” and “crossed into oncoming traffic” and “died on impact.”
Another villain-of-the-week story. Some nameless drunk who’d destroyed a family and then conveniently died so no one had to think about him anymore.
I knew that feeling—had felt it myself when the hospital called to tell me my father was dead, that instant relief mixed with shame for feeling relieved.
I almost closed the laptop right then. I’d gotten what I came for: enough information to understand Lily’s triggers, to know why the cameras and noise had sent her back to that day. I didn’t need to know more.
But my finger hovered over the trackpad—something about the date nagging at me.
The article said Wednesday, May 15th.
May 15th.
My father died on May 15th.
I’d been working a shift at the diner when the hospital called—they’d said there’d been an accident, that he’d been drinking, that he’d died instantly.
The dates were the same.
Coincidence. It had to be. Drunk drivers crashed every day, multiple accidents happened in the same city on the same day all the time.
But my hands were already typing before my brain caught up.
Then I saw it.
A local news site with less polish than the major outlets but more detail.
Fatal Two-Car Collision on Amsterdam Avenue Claims Two Lives
I clicked.
The article listed the location and at the bottom, in a section labeled “Fatalities”:
Joana Marie Valdez, 34.
Thomas Michael Tinsley, 52.
I stared at my father’s name on the screen, the letters suddenly unfamiliar.
Read it again, slower this time, like maybe I’d misread the letters somehow.
Thomas Michael Tinsley.
The same name I’d seen on his death certificate, the same name that had made my stomach turn every time I’d heard it growing up.
My father’s name.
Right there under Joana Valdez’s name, like they were connected.
They were connected. In the worst possible way.
My hands shook so violently I had to set the laptop aside before I dropped it—the screen still glowing with those two names, those two deaths, linked together in black and white text that wouldn’t change no matter how many times I blinked.
My father had killed Joana Valdez.
The thought came clear and terrible, cutting through the fog in my brain like a knife.
My father had killed Hector’s wife.
The sentence repeated in my head, refusing to become real, couldn’t become real because if it was real then everything else was real too: six months of working with Lily, of living in their home, of growing close to Hector while carrying the blood of their destroyer in my veins.
My stomach lurched hard and fast. I barely made it to the bathroom before I threw up—violently, helplessly—my whole body shaking with it.
When there was nothing left I just stayed there on the floor with my cheek pressed against the cool tile, tasting bile and breathing too fast, my heart pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat.
All this time.
And I was the daughter of the man who’d destroyed everything Hector loved.
I texted Gianna first thing in the morning, told her I was sick, needed to reschedule.
Her response came quickly—worried, asking what was wrong, if I needed anything.
I lied:
Sarah
just a bug, I’ll be fine.
I turned off my phone after that.
The next day I texted again:
Sarah
Still sick, sorry.
The day after that, the same message. By the third day, I’d stopped checking my phone entirely, just let it sit on my kitchen counter screen-down while I stayed in bed and tried to figure out what the hell I was supposed to do.
I couldn’t tell him. The truth would destroy whatever fragile thing we’d built between us—he’d look at me with the same disgust I’d felt for my father every day of my life.
But I couldn’t keep lying either, couldn’t keep showing up at his home and working with his daughter and acting like I wasn’t carrying this secret that would devastate them both if they knew.
So I stayed in bed, existing in this horrible limbo where every option felt impossible.
On the fourth day, someone knocked on my door.
The knocking came again, more insistent.
“Sarah? It’s us.” Lily’s voice—small, hopeful—cut straight through me.”
My heart stopped.
I stumbled out of bed and crossed to the door, pressing my hand against it. Through the peephole I could see them: Hector holding bags, Lily clutching a stuffed animal I recognized from her room.
“Are you in there?” Hector’s voice was gentle. “Lily was worried. We brought soup.”
I looked down at myself—hadn’t changed clothes since yesterday, my hair was a disaster, eyes were probably red and swollen from crying.
But Lily was on the other side of this door, and I couldn’t hide from her forever.
I opened it.
Hector’s face changed when he saw me, his eyebrows drawing together and his eyes widening slightly as they scanned my face like he was checking every problem.
“Jesus, Sarah.” His voice wasn’t judgment—it was concern, which somehow felt worse.
“I look that good?” My voice came out hoarse, brittle.
Lily didn’t wait for permission—she pushed past her father and threw her arms around my waist, pressing her face into my stomach. “You didn’t answer my texts. I got scared.”
The guilt was immediate and sharp. I’d been so consumed by my own horror that I hadn’t thought about what my silence would do to an eight-year-old who’d already lost too many people.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I should have responded.” I hugged her back even though every part of me wanted to pull away, to put distance between myself and this child whose mother my father had killed.
“Do you need to go to the hospital?” Hector asked. “You look like you haven’t slept in days.”
“I’m fine, just a bug.”
“That’s not what fine looks like.”
Lily tugged on my hand. “Can we come in? Dad made chicken noodle soup—it’s really good.”
I wanted to say no, wanted to tell them to leave and never come back because I didn’t deserve their kindness or their concern or their presence in my apartment.
But Lily was already moving inside, still holding my hand and pulling me along like she belonged here.
Hector followed with the bags of food, moving into my tiny kitchen and starting to unpack containers: soup and bread and what looked like homemade everything. My counter disappeared under the spread.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” I said, overwhelmed by the sight of my tiny kitchen overflowing with care.
“Lily insisted.” He pulled out a bottle of medicine. “And I thought you might need this.”
“I don’t have a fever.”
“You look like you do.”
Lily pulled me to the couch and sat close enough that our legs touched—she’d brought the stuffed elephant from her room.
“Ellie the elephant was worried about you,” she said. “So I brought him to help.”
My throat closed up completely. I couldn’t speak, couldn’t swallow, could barely breathe around the weight pressing on my chest.
Hector brought over bowls of soup and we ate in silence for a while, Lily chattering about her week: a book Mrs. Pearson had read to her, a game she’d played with Gianna, how much she missed our sessions.
“I wanted to tell you,” Hector said suddenly, “what happened at the ballet class wasn’t your fault.”
I set down my spoon.
“The reporters were the problem—not you, not the class, not anything else.” His eyes were serious. “Lily still wants to dance. She talks about you every day.”
“That’s nice of you to say.”
“It’s not nice, it’s true.” He paused. “When are you coming back?” His voice was steady, but something in it felt too careful.
Lily looked at me enthusiastically.
I couldn’t answer, couldn’t tell them I might never come back, that being near them felt like standing on glass and knowing any moment I’d fall through.
“Soon,” I managed. “Just… a few more days.”
Hector was watching me too closely, reading my face the way he always did—seeing past whatever mask I tried to wear, and far too close to the truth I couldn’t let him find.