Chapter 2: When Ghosts Return

Delilah's POV

"Mommy, I'm thirsty..."

Emma's weak voice yanked me from my restless doze. Downstairs, Sarah's cheerful chatter mixed with a deeper, all-too-familiar tone.

"Come on, sweetheart," I whispered, scooping her up. She felt lighter now that the fever had broken. "Let's get you some water."

I crept down the narrow stairs, Emma's head lolling against my shoulder. If I could just grab the water and slip back up before—

"Oh, there she is!" Sarah's bright voice stopped me cold on the bottom step. "Atticus, this is the woman I told you about—the one who showed up last night with her daughter."

I looked up slowly, and my world spun.

Five years. Five damn years, and Atticus Whitmore still knocked the breath out of me. He'd bulked up, his shoulders broader under that navy button-down, stubble shadowing his jaw. But those storm-gray eyes—the ones that used to light up for me—turned to ice the second they met mine.

His coffee mug slipped in his grip. For a beat, we both froze.

"You," he breathed, the word dripping with venom.

Sarah glanced between us, confused. "Do you two... know each other?"

"No," Atticus snapped, slamming his mug down. "We don't."

The lie stung like a slap. Emma stirred in my arms, mumbling about water, and I focused on her instead of the man glaring at me like I was trash.

"Actually," Atticus added, his voice cold as steel, "they need to leave. Now."

"Atticus!" Sarah's eyes widened. "What's wrong with you? The kid was burning up—"

"I don't give a damn—" He caught himself, glancing at Emma. His tone leveled out, but stayed lethal. "I don't think it's smart to take in strangers. Especially ones who show up in the middle of the night with some sob story."

My face burned. "It's not a sob story, you son of a—" I stopped, mindful of Emma. "Please. We have nowhere else to go."

"Nowhere else?" His laugh was bitter. "That's rich."

Sarah stepped between us, hands up. "Okay, what the hell's going on? You're acting like you've seen a ghost, and you—" she turned to me, "—look ready to run."

Emma lifted her head then, blinking at the adults. "Mommy? Who are these people?"

Thank God, she was awake and coherent. I brushed back her sweaty curls, relief washing over me. "This is Sarah, baby. She helped us when you were sick."

Emma studied Sarah with serious blue eyes, then turned to Atticus. "Are you Sarah's friend?"

"Something like that," he muttered, his expression softening just a bit.

"Where's Daddy?" she frowned, like she was grasping at a foggy memory.

The room went silent. Sarah's face softened with sympathy, and even Atticus looked thrown.

"Daddy's not here anymore, baby," I said, throat tight. "But you're safe now. That's what matters."

Emma nodded with a four-year-old's easy acceptance. "Okay. Can I have some water? My throat hurts."

Sarah jumped into action. "Of course, sweetie. Let me get you some juice too—you need the sugar." She shot Atticus a pointed look. "We're not tossing a sick kid out on the street."

Atticus's jaw clenched, but he nodded. "Fine. But I need to talk to..." He paused, pretending he didn't know my name.

"Delilah," I said quietly. "My name's Delilah."

"Right. Delilah." It came out like a curse. "I need to speak with her. Alone. About payment for services."

"Of course," I replied, setting Emma down. She toddled over to Sarah, who fussed over her like a pro. "We should discuss arrangements."

He led me to a storage room off the hallway and shut the door. The mask dropped instantly.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" he hissed.

I lifted my chin, heart pounding. "Emma needed help. This was the closest—"

"Bullshit." His eyes scanned me—the dark circles, my shaking hands. Then they locked on my wrists. "Jesus, Delilah. What happened there?"

The bruises from Bradley were fading to ugly yellow-green. I yanked my sleeves down. "It's nothing."

"Like hell." His voice softened, but stayed intense. "And your neck—"

"It's none of your business," I snapped, backing against the wall.

He stared, and for a second, I saw a flicker of the old Atticus—the one who'd hold me when I cried.

Then it vanished.

"Here's the deal," he said, calm but deadly. "Sarah doesn't know about our history. And it's staying that way. I don't know what trouble you're in, but you're not dragging her into it."

"I would never—"

"You wrecked everything you touched back then," he cut in. "I won't let you do it again. Sarah's good. She doesn't deserve your mess."

Each word twisted like a knife, but I nodded. "I get it. I won't say a word."

"Good." He stepped closer, voice a low threat. "Whatever game you're playing, I'll figure it out. And when I do..."

He didn't finish, but he didn't need to.

A knock jolted us. "Everything okay?" Sarah called.

"Fine," Atticus replied, stepping back. "Just sorting logistics."

We emerged to find Emma on Sarah's lap, sipping apple juice and chattering about cartoons. She looked up at me, eyes bright and clear for the first time in days.

"Mommy, Sarah says we can stay a bit. And you can help in the clinic to earn our keep. Isn't that nice?"

My throat tightened at her hope. Sarah smiled warmly. "It's settled. You'll handle filing, cleaning—whatever needs doing. Emma can hang upstairs; I'll check on her between patients."

"Thank you," I whispered. "You have no idea what this means."

"Everyone deserves a second chance," Sarah said simply.

Atticus grunted. "I have rounds. Don't touch anything while I'm gone."

After he left, Sarah set Emma up with coloring books in the waiting room while I organized files. But my mind kept replaying our talk.

He knew something was off. And Emma's memory loss—would it stick? What if she remembered that night, remembered me killing her father?

I glanced at her, happily coloring a princess in pink, humming away. She seemed genuinely blank on Bradley, like the trauma had erased it.

Maybe it was a mercy. Forgetting might help her heal.

But this peace wouldn't last. Atticus was suspicious—he'd never drop it. He'd dig until he uncovered the truth.

And when he did, he'd know he was sheltering a murderer.

The crayon snapped in Emma's hand. She looked up with those innocent blue eyes. "Mommy? Why do you look scared?"

I forced a smile, ruffling her curls. "I'm not scared, baby. Just tired."