Chapter 1: Blood on My Hands

Delilah's POV

"Mommy... there's so much blood..."

Emma's fevered whisper from the backseat hit me like a punch to the gut. My hands tightened on the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white. The dashboard clock glowed 3:17 AM as I sped through the empty streets of Millbrook, my heart pounding.

"Shh, baby. It was just a bad dream," I whispered back, my voice cracking. But we both knew it wasn't.

The blood was real. Bradley's blood, splattered on Emma's pink pajamas, the kitchen floor, and my trembling hands. Three hours ago, I'd finally fought back—grabbing that kitchen knife and ending five years of hell.

Now I was a murderer.

The old Honda wheezed as I turned onto Main Street, praying it wouldn't break down. Not here. Not when Emma was burning up with fever and the only place I could run was to the man I'd destroyed five years ago.

Atticus.

What the hell was I thinking? This was insane. But Emma needed a doctor, and this small town was the only spot where Bradley's money and connections couldn't touch me. Maybe it'd buy me time to figure out my next move.

Emma whimpered again. In the rearview mirror, her little face was flushed, curls damp with sweat. 104 degrees last I checked. She needed help now.

I pulled into the empty parking lot and cut the engine. The silence was deafening.

Unbuckling Emma from her car seat, I scooped her up—her body limp and scorching against my chest. I ran to the front door and started pounding.

"Please, please," I muttered, banging harder. "Someone be here."

Footsteps approached. The door swung open, revealing a woman I'd never seen—beautiful in that effortless way, auburn hair in a messy bun, green eyes wide with concern, wearing scrubs and a cardigan.

Not Atticus. Some other woman.

"Oh my God, what's wrong?" she asked, voice soft but urgent.

"My daughter... she's really sick. I need a doctor," I stammered, shifting Emma's weight. "Is Dr. Whitmore here?"

Her eyes flicked to Emma, then back to me. "I'm Sarah, the nurse. Atticus is out on an emergency call, but bring her in. Let's see what I can do."

Sarah. Of course. Perfect, wholesome Sarah who probably baked cookies and volunteered at shelters.

I followed her inside. The clinic smelled like antiseptic and faint florals—maybe her perfume. Everything was clean and organized, the opposite of the chaos I'd fled.

"Set her on the exam table," Sarah said, grabbing a thermometer. "What's her name?"

"Emma. She's four." I laid her down gently, brushing back her damp curls. "She started getting sick yesterday, and tonight it got worse."

Sarah slid the thermometer under Emma's tongue. "Has she been eating? Drinking?"

I shook my head. "Barely. She just sleeps and mumbles about... bad dreams."

The thermometer beeped. Sarah frowned. "103.8. High, but not critical. Probably a virus—I'll give her something to bring it down." She looked at me with kind green eyes. "When's the last time you slept? You look wiped out."

I almost laughed. Sleep? Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Bradley's face, the knife going in, the shock in his eyes.

"We've been driving all night," I said. "Car broke down, and this was the only place with lights on."

Sarah studied me for a beat. "Where are you staying tonight?"

"We're... not sure yet." I had maybe two hundred bucks in cash and a credit card I was too scared to use.

"There's a room upstairs," she said without missing a beat. "It's small, but there's a bed. You both need rest, and I should keep an eye on Emma anyway."

I stared, shocked. "We can't... I mean, we can't pay—"

"Did I ask for money?" Her smile was warm but firm. "Helping people is what we do. C'mon, I'll show you up."

We climbed the narrow stairs, Emma limp in my arms. On the wall, framed photos: Atticus in his white coat, older and more mature. Next to his diploma, one of him and Sarah—his arms around her, both laughing.

My chest tightened. Of course he'd moved on. I'd burned that bridge when I chose Bradley's money over his love.

"Here we are," Sarah said, opening a door to a cozy room with a double bed and a window overlooking the street. "Bathroom's down the hall. Extra blankets in the closet."

I laid Emma on the bed, her flushed face tiny against the pillows. She stirred, eyes fluttering open.

"Mommy?" she whispered hoarsely. "Where's Daddy? Why was there so much—"

"Shh, baby," I cut in, stroking her hair. "Daddy's not here anymore. Just sleep, okay?"

Her eyes closed, and I exhaled shakily. Sarah watched with a curious look.

"Rough divorce?" she asked quietly.

"Something like that," I murmured.

"I'll check on her in a bit," Sarah said, heading out. "Try to rest—you look like you're about to drop."

After she left, I sat on the bed's edge, listening to Emma's labored breathing. Then I heard a car pull into the driveway.

My blood ran cold. Through the thin walls, Sarah's voice: "How'd it go? Mrs. Patterson okay?"

A man's voice replied—deep, familiar. Atticus was home.

I pressed my ear to the floor, straining to hear.

"We've got guests upstairs," Sarah said. "A mom and her little girl. Kid had a high fever, so I put them in the spare room."

"That was kind of you," he said, and my heart ached at the sound.

Their voices faded as they moved away, probably to their bedroom.

I lay down next to Emma, pulling her close. The irony hit hard—I'd run to the man I'd betrayed, and he was sheltering me without knowing it.

Emma mumbled in her sleep: "Daddy... why did Mommy hurt Daddy?"

I clamped a hand over her mouth, panic surging. She was just feverish, confused. But what if she said that in front of them? What if they asked questions?

I was screwed. Totally screwed.