Chapter 2

Victor's face went gray.

"Tina is my daughter. You think I don't care? Ellie, stop keeping score."

I closed my eyes. I was too tired to keep looking at that face — the one I had once loved, obsessed over, and then learned to hate.

"Victor. From this day on, I'm done making allowances for you two. I'm also done fighting. And I am done hoping."

"What does that mean?"

"It means you can take care of Sandra however you like. But Tina and I — that's no longer your concern."

"Ellie!"

His hand closed around my wrist.

"Is this about money? Fine. I'll draw next month's allowance tomorrow. Every cent. Just stop talking about separating."

His fingers were warm. The touch turned my stomach.

I pulled my arm free and rubbed the red mark on my wrist.

"Keep it. Sandra will need it for her next round of prescriptions."

His chest heaved.

"Fine. See how long you last on your own. And don't forget you're still living in base housing."

I smiled, reached into my coat pocket, and held out a folded sheet of paper.

"Actually. This is for you."

It was a handwritten Voluntary Waiver of Base Family Housing, signed and dated in my own hand.

"When did you—"

His mouth opened and closed.

"The day I moved out. I've been carrying it since then."

I kept my voice even.

"Sign it. Tina and I are done taking up space that belongs to someone else."

Down the hall, Sandra's voice drifted toward us, soft and trembling.

"Vic? You've been in there so long. I can't stop worrying—"

She appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame, wearing her suffering like something carefully arranged.

"Ellie, please don't do anything rash. I'll go back home. I'll leave you both alone—"

Her eyes filled.

Victor stepped toward her at once.

"Sandra. Stop that. I made a promise to my brother. You're not going anywhere."

He looked at me over his shoulder — and in that look was the same disappointment I had seen a thousand times before, as if I were the one who had done something wrong.

"Ellie, look what you're doing to her."

He signed the form.

"But Tina is my daughter. That doesn't change. When she's better, I'm coming to get her."

I took the paper, folded it carefully, and tucked it away.

"Safe travels."

He guided Sandra out without looking back.

At the hospital entrance, under the yellow glow of a streetlamp, he took off his coat and wrapped it around her shoulders.

He never once glanced back at the window where Tina lay.

In my first life, I had drowned myself in the river over this man.

Tina was left alone. Sandra forgot her. By the time anyone thought to look, she was gone.

I had heard — much later, in the version of events that haunts me still — that Tina's last words were whispered into an empty room.

"Mommy, I'm so cold. I'm so hungry. Where are you?"

The tears came before I could stop them, sliding down in silence.

"Tina. Not in this life. No one is going to hurt you again."

I dried my face. My eyes went cold.

Victor Harlan. This time, you take nothing from me.