CHAPTER 2

Paty POV

My grip tightens. “Things that should never happen keep happening. Different year. Different face. Same darn outcome.”

“You’re going to change that,” Sebastian says. “You already are.”

I don’t answer. I just pull up in front of Mom’s house in Queens and cut the engine.

The windows fog from the warmth inside. I sit, watching her curtains flutter. Feeling the helplessness settle like a second skin.

“I’m here,” I tell him.

“Go eat something carby and hug the woman who made you fierce,” he says. “If you need me later, I’ll be here. Practicing my deep-throating and looking legally devastating.”

I smile. For real this time. “Thanks, Bastian.”

“Anytime, Counselor. Now go be adored.”

I grab the peach pie I picked up—because I couldn’t show up empty-handed, and Mom will notice if I look like I haven’t eaten—and head upstairs.

She opens the door before I knock.

“Took you long enough,” she says, smiling as she pulls me into a hug that smells like roasted garlic and moisturizer.

“I brought pie,” I say, muffled into her shoulder.

She steps back, eyes narrowing just enough to clock something. “You’re pale.”

“I’m always pale.”

“You’re pale like something’s bothering you.”

I brush past her. “I’m fine, Mom.”

Her place is tidy, of course. Cozy but not cluttered—books stacked on the radiator shelf, a half-done puzzle on the coffee table. The scent of dinner—meatballs, maybe eggplant—grounds me.

We’ve never been big on traditions. No matching aprons. No themed table settings.

But Sunday supper? Non-negotiable.

For a few hours, we pretend the world isn’t broken.

She dishes food while I set the table, both of us falling into rhythm. I try not to bring up work.

But when my phone buzzes for the fifth time and it’s another spam email—still no Mari—I feel her eyes on me.

Mom doesn’t speak right away. Just sips her water and watches me over the rim, gauging how hard to push.

“Is it the girl?”

I freeze.

She always knows.

“What girl?” I ask, cutting into a meatball with too much focus.

Her brows lift. “The girl you’ve been avoiding since you walked in like someone torched your favorite organizer.”

I stare at my plate, trying to lie to someone who literally made my face. It’s impossible.

I sigh, setting my fork down.

“Her name’s Mari. She’s a victim in a trial that got thrown out this week.”

Mom’s expression stays steady, but something dims behind her eyes.

“And she’s in danger now,” she says.

“She got a restraining order. But he’s still around. Sending photos. The police say it’s not actionable.”

“Of course they did.”

No bitterness. Just fact.

I nod, looking down, suddenly five years old again—helpless.

“I don’t know what to do,” I whisper. “The law won’t protect her until something happens. Something?—”

I stop. Like saying it would tempt fate.

She reaches across the table and takes my hand.

“You can’t save everyone, Pops.”

“I know,” I whisper. “But I want to save her.”

She squeezes. Softer:

“Then do what you have to.”

That should be the end. A permission-granted moment you tuck away.

But her words open a door I’ve kept bolted.

Because I’ve heard them before.

Not in court but from her. Something always unspoken when I was younger.

She was tired in a way I didn’t understand then.

Always watching windows. Always packing.

I thought we were adventurers. Turns out, we were just running.

We had moved seven times before I was nine.

New apartments. New schools.

Always after something happened like a midnight call. A man staring too long at the grocery store.

Back then, the rules were simple:

Don’t answer the phone.

Don’t talk to strangers.

And never tell anyone your mom was sixteen when she had you.

We lived on edge, like a horror movie stuck in the quiet part before the scream.

And still, he found us.

Her rapist.

My father.

No one used his name. At least never in front of me.

He wasn’t a person, really. More like a a shadow.

He’d call her job and leave voicemails. Show up at the store and just… watch. Nothing “actionable.” Nothing the cops could do.

They said,We can’t help if he hasn’t done anything.

Sound familiar?

I used to wake up to her crying in the kitchen. Whispering into the phone. Holding ice to her jaw—even when there wasn’t a bruise. Like memory alone could make it ache.

And then… it stopped.

No more calls.

No more letters.

No more fear in her eyes when the doorbell rang.

I was ten. And even then, I knew better than to ask.

Now, sitting across from her, watching the worry she tries to hide, I wonder if she made it stop.

If she did what the system never would.

I don’t know what pulls the thought forward.

Maybe it’s the quiet between dinner and dishes.

Maybe it’s the towel she keeps folding like her hands need purpose.

Or maybe it’s the weight of this week—this loss, this mistrial—pressing too hard against what I thought I could carry.

I drift inward.

Back to the thing I pretend I’ve made peace with.

I never asked much about him.

When I was young, I got the basics.

He was older. She was sixteen. He hurt her.

And somehow, she survived.

When I was a teen, I searched the internet.

As a lawyer, I pulled everything—transcripts, redacted photos, the case file.