Page 14 of Colt
And I would never, ever let that man hurt them.
?
That night, after the boys were asleep, I sat at the kitchen table with Betty and told her everything.
“He grabbed you?” Betty’s face was pale with fury. “He put his hands on you?”
“Just my arm. Just for a second. One of his friends—Glitch, I think he called him—he stopped it. Then this other man made them leave.” I wrapped my hands around my mug of tea, trying to absorb its warmth. “Betty, the way they looked at me. The things they said. Like I was… like I was some kind of monster.”
“You’re not a monster, sweetheart.”
“But what if I was?” The question that had been eating at me all day finally spilled out. “What if I was like them before? Cold and cruel and part of that… that gang? What if that’s who Lilac really was, and this version of me—the mother, the survivor—is just what happened when the old me got erased?”
“That’s not—”
“Or what if he did this to me?” I set down the mug before I spilled it. “What if Colt is the one who hurt me? What if I tried to leave and he—”
“Graham will be here later.” Betty reached across the table and took my hands. “I don’t know much about your past, but I know enough to know you were not a bad person, and Colt did not beat you.” Her voice was firm, certain. “He’ll tell us everything. Until then, please don’t torture yourself with what-ifs.”
But the what-ifs were all I had. The what-ifs and the fragments of memory that didn’t match the monster I’d seen today.
A porch in Texas. A man’s laugh, warm and low.Best view in the world, Lil.And beneath that memory, others trying to surface—the feel of calloused fingers trailing down my arm, the press of a hard body against mine in the darkness.
I shivered, and not from cold.
That man—the one in the flashes—didn’t seem like someone who would grab me on a public street, who would surround me with his friends and call me names. And my body seemed to agree. It responded to memories my mind couldn’t access, a warmth that had no place existing alongside the fear.
But maybe that was the trick of it. Maybe abusers always seemed charming at first. Maybe the attraction was part of the trap.
“I don’t know who I was,” I whispered. “And I don’t know if I want to find out.”
Betty squeezed my hands. “Whoever you were, you’re a good woman now. A good mother. That’s what matters.”
I wanted to believe her. But the fear didn’t go away.
?
The next morning, I woke to the smell of pancakes and the sound of my boys’ laughter.
I stumbled out of bed and followed the noise to the kitchen, where I found Betty at the stove, flipping pancakes while Luca and Knox sat at the table, coloring on paper placemats.
“Good morning, sweetheart.” Betty glanced over her shoulder at me, her smile warm but tired. “There’s fresh coffee in the pot.”
“Morning.” I rubbed sleep from my eyes. “You didn’t have to make breakfast.”
“Wanted to.” She slid a perfectly golden pancake onto a plate. “The boys helped me earlier—they picked out the blueberries.”
“We made sure there were lots,” Luca announced proudly.
“Because you were sad yesterday,” Knox added, more quietly.
“You’re all too good to me.”
Betty set down her spatula and wiped her hands on a towel. “Graham’s out on the porch,” she said gently, nodding toward the window. “I’m going to go talk to him for a bit before… well, before he comes in to talk to you. If that’s all right.”
I looked past her and saw him—Graham, who’d arrived late last night while I was already in bed. He sat in one of the porch chairs with a coffee mug in his hands, staring out at the yard. Even from here, I could see the tension in his shoulders.
“Of course,” I managed.
