Chapter 3

I dropped down to clean it.

“I'm sorry. I'll fix it.”

Grant and Reid came running. Grant saw Blythe crying and didn't bother asking me what had happened.

“Already? You've barely been home a day. Do you want to go back?”

I grabbed the glass faster.

“No. Please. I won't cause trouble.”

Then they noticed the blood in the milk. My bare feet. The pieces in my hands.

Blythe backed away. “See? She's unstable. Keep her away from me.”

Grant lifted me. I struggled until he put me down, then knelt again.

“It doesn't need a doctor. I can wash it off. I don't cost much.”

Neither man spoke.

In the downstairs bathroom, Grant cleaned the cuts. He rolled up my sleeve and went still at the scars beneath it.

“You can tell us when someone hurts you,” he said. “We're your family.”

I watched the cotton turn pink.

For years, I had waited for my family to rescue me. Only now did I understand that the people I had been waiting for were the reason nobody came.

At the clinic the next morning, Reid insisted I sit beside him. I stayed near the back door until he gave up.

Blythe's appointment ended first.

She was pregnant.

Grant laughed. Reid hugged her. They discussed due dates and nursery colors while I sat with my hands folded in my lap.

Nobody had been happy about my pregnancies. A growing belly had only given the men another reason to hurt me.

When the nurse called my name, Grant waved me on.

“Go ahead. We need to stay with Blythe.”

Dr. Bennett examined me in private. Her expression changed when she saw my body. It changed again when she reviewed my bloodwork.

“Mara, these results are very concerning. You need a hospital assessment today. I believe you have advanced leukemia.”

I caught her hand before she could reach for the phone.

“Don't tell them.”

“We can speak privately. You're safe in this room.”

I couldn't make her understand. Safe rooms didn't stay safe once a door opened.

“If they think I'm useless, they'll send me back. Please. Don't tell them.”

She asked whether I wanted a social worker. Whether anyone had threatened me. I shook my head at every question. Fear had made honesty feel more dangerous than dying.

She gave me an urgent referral and a number I could call alone. She did not share my diagnosis without my permission.

Outside, Grant asked if it was anything serious.

“Her results are private,” she said. “She needs follow-up care.”

He barely listened.

“See?” He smoothed my hair. “You've just had a rough adjustment. We've got all the time in the world to make it up to you.”