***Alissa Blake***
I had always known that coming back here would bring me answers. The problem was that now that they were emerging, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to know them and confirm what I had spent years trying to understand. I know—it sounds hypocritical.
The morning sun filtered through the beige curtains of the house, casting a golden hue over the furniture, almost making everything seem cozy. It would have been—if I hadn’t been born here.
I sat at the kitchen table, a cup of hot coffee between my hands, watching my parents talk about topics that were supposedly interesting to me. I was still wondering if I was living in my own personal hell.
The whole time, something inside me screamed that nothing was real.
My mother smiled at me as she poured more coffee, and I tried not to flinch. It was far too unsettling to see them like this—attentive and caring as if our history had been completely different from the hell I had lived through under this roof.
I needed to understand what was going on. So, I did what I did best: I observed.
My mother’s clothes were discreet but of high quality. My father, now supposedly a man of faith devoted to the local church, wore a watch that I was certain did not fit within a pastor’s salary. The new car in the garage also didn’t align with what I remembered about our financial reality before I was sent to reform school.
And just like that, through small details, I started piecing together the puzzle.
They were making money. A lot of money.
But the question was: from where?
Morgan rushed into the kitchen, her little feet pattering against the floor, her hair still messy from sleep, and I forced a smile. She was adorable, and I hated to admit how much I envied that—her genuine joy.
"Did you sleep well?" I asked, trying to focus on her instead of the confusion forming in my mind.
"Yes!" She grabbed a slice of bread, spreading butter on it with enthusiasm. "I have theater class today. I'm going to be the fairy! Do you want to see my costume?"
She smiled, and for a moment, I forgot everything. Their dirtiness, my suspicion, the suffering I had endured here.
Morgan was… real. She wasn’t part of their dirty game. She wasn’t a piece on their chessboard. I lowered my gaze to my cup, trying to ignore the anger rising in my chest as I swallowed the urge to cry.
"That’s great, Morgan. I’d love to see your costume."
"I’ll go get it for you!" She beamed, and my heart clenched. But my mother intervened before I could respond.
"It’s so nice to see you two like this… We were surprised when you showed up. You never wanted to keep in touch before."
I looked at her, feeling the bait being thrown.
"I think it’s because you sent me to a reform school and pretended I never existed," I replied dryly.
She sighed—that exhausted martyr sighs that made me want to throw my cup out the window. Or maybe at her.
"We always prayed that you would find your way, dear."
Dear. I almost choked on my coffee.
I was about to respond, but my father interrupted:
"And now you live in Boston… The big city must be a tough place for a girl all on her own."
He said it so casually that I almost missed the subtext. But I didn’t. It was just a way to probe where I was and what I was doing.
And, most importantly, who I was still in contact with.
"I manage just fine. I’m used to being alone," I murmured, playing their game.
My mother smiled, but she didn’t seem satisfied.
"And what about the music world? Do you still keep in touch with… acquaintances?"
And there it was. His name wasn’t spoken, but it hung in the air like a ghost between us.
Holden.
They were after something.
I knew that, technically, my connection with him had never been publicly exposed. The media had mentioned that an unknown girl had been hit by Holden Young’s car, but my identity had never been swept under the rug, thanks to his crisis management. So how the hell were they so sure I was still connected to him?
I decided to test them.
"After the accident, we didn’t have much contact. He has his career, and I have my life."
I could have sworn I saw a flicker of disappointment cross my mother’s face.
So that was it. They wanted information about Holden.
And I didn’t know exactly why. But I knew it wouldn’t be anything good.
I pushed my chair back, trying not to show how much that conversation had affected me.
"I think I’ll take a walk around town. Revisit some places."
My father nodded, and my mother just smiled. But something told me this story was far from over.