Chapter 82

Chapter 82

Elias

I hung back as the three of them walked toward the house. Mrs. Miller had one hand on Lila's arm, Mr. Miller the other. They moved slowly, adjusting their pace to match hers, careful not to jostle her injured ankle. Every few steps, Mrs. Miller would glance down at Lila's foot, her brow furrowed with worry.

Something wasn't adding up. The Millers obviously loved Lila—anyone could see that. But their panic earlier, when they'd learned about our marriage, had been more than normal parental concern. Mrs. Miller's voice when she'd begged me not to abandon Lila, the way she'd said Lila had been "thrown away her whole life"—she'd been talking about something specific. Something she knew had happened.

I thought about the drive here, when we'd passed the Wentworth estate. Lila had gone completely still. Her breathing had turned shallow and quick, her hand trembling in mine. She'd stared straight ahead, refusing to even look at the mansion. That wasn't someone remembering a bad job. That was someone who'd been hurt there.

The Millers knew what had happened. They'd been there. And whatever it was, they still felt guilty about it.

I needed to understand. Not to judge them or interfere, but to know what Lila was still carrying so I could make sure no one ever hurt her that way again.

We stepped inside. The house was small, everything still new—fresh paint on the walls, furniture that didn't quite match yet, the faint smell of paint thinner mixing with the roast cooking in the kitchen. This wasn't a home they'd lived in for years.

"Let's get you upstairs," Mrs. Miller said, still holding Lila's arm. "Your room is ready."

Lila stopped walking. "My room?"

"Of course." Mr. Miller's voice was gruff. "This is your home, Lila."

I followed them up the narrow stairs. Mrs. Miller pushed open a door at the end of the hall, and I saw her hands shake slightly on the doorknob.

The room was small. Lavender curtains with little daisies. A desk under the window with a lamp and notebooks stacked neatly on top. A framed photo on the nightstand—Lila, younger, standing between the Millers. She was smiling, but it was tentative. Careful.

Lila stood in the doorway, one hand over her mouth. Her eyes moved across the room—the desk, the bookshelf, the watercolor painting on the wall. A garden, painted in soft colors. When she saw it, she started crying.

She walked slowly into the room and touched the desk. Then the bookshelf. Then the photo frame. Like she couldn't believe they were real.

"I thought..." Her voice broke. "I thought you'd forget about me. That I was just another foster kid who didn't work out."

Mrs. Miller pulled her into a hug, crying too. "Never. You were never just a placement. You're our daughter. We've been waiting for you to come home."

Mr. Miller turned away and adjusted the window blinds. I could see him wiping his eyes.

I stayed near the door. This wasn't my moment. But I couldn't look away. This room, in this new house they'd just bought—they'd made it for her. They'd been planning for her to come back.

Mrs. Miller finally let go and fussed over Lila, getting her to sit on the bed, propping her ankle up on a pillow. Mr. Miller pulled up a chair and sat down, watching Lila like he was afraid she might disappear.

"I should check on lunch," Mrs. Miller said, though she didn't move right away. "The roast needs another hour."

Lila stood up immediately. "Let me help—"

"No," Mr. Miller said, pressing her shoulder gently. "Your ankle needs to rest."

"But I want to help." There was something desperate in her voice. I need to be useful. I need to prove I belong here.

I stepped forward. "I'll help Mrs. Miller. I'm not doing anything useful standing around."

Mrs. Miller blinked at me. Lila looked torn.

"Elias, you don't have to—"

"I want to," I said. "Besides, someone needs to make sure you don't try to sneak downstairs."

She smiled a little at that, but I could see the worry in her eyes. She was afraid of what Mrs. Miller might tell me.

That's exactly why I needed to go.

I followed Mrs. Miller downstairs. She tied on an old apron and started pulling vegetables out of the fridge. The kitchen was small but organized. Sunlight came through plain curtains. She handed me a peeler and a bowl of potatoes.

I started peeling. The first one came out terrible—thick strips of skin, chunks of potato gouged out. Mrs. Miller watched for a second, then reached over and adjusted my grip.

"Like this," she said quietly. "Steady pressure."

I tried again, focusing hard. I wanted to show her I wasn't above this kind of work.

We didn't talk for a few minutes. Just the sound of the peeler, the pot bubbling on the stove. But I could feel her tension building. She kept glancing at me, like she was trying to decide something.

Finally, she put down her knife. "Mr. Voss, I need to apologize for earlier. The things we said to you—"

"You don't need to apologize. You were protecting Lila."

"But you have to understand." She twisted the dish towel in her hands. "Lila has been through things no child should go through. And we failed her. We sent her away when she needed us most." Her voice cracked. "I don't know if she'll ever really forgive us, even if she says she does."

"Mrs. Miller, Lila doesn't blame you. I've heard how she talks about you. Whatever choices you had to make, she understands."

"But do you understand?" She looked at me, desperate. "Do you understand what we're trusting you with? Because once you know what happened to her, you'll see why we're so scared. Why we can't stand the thought of her being hurt again."

My chest tightened. "Then tell me. Help me understand, so I can make sure it never happens again."

She studied my face for a long moment. Looking for something. Finally, she nodded and pulled out a chair at the table. I sat down across from her.

Her hands were shaking as she folded them on the table. She took a deep breath.

"What I'm about to tell you," she said, barely above a whisper, "Lila doesn't know I'm sharing. She's never talked about those years. Not really. She's buried it so deep I think she's convinced herself it wasn't as bad as it was." She paused. "But I was there. I saw what that place did to her. I watched it happen, and I didn't stop it. I've carried that guilt every single day."

I leaned forward. Every muscle in my body was tense. I needed to know. I needed to understand what had shaped Lila into the woman who was so afraid of being abandoned, so convinced she didn't deserve to be loved.

"I'm listening," I said quietly. "And whatever you tell me stays between us unless Lila chooses to share it herself."