“You know who it was,” I said quietly.

I wasn’t trying to be hurtful. I just ... couldn’t ignore it anymore. Not the way I had for the past month. Not after what had happened earlier.

She held my gaze, her eyes glassy, but she didn’t say anything.

I drew in a shaky breath. “Candy ... we both saw the gasoline. You saw it,” I said. “They meant to use it.”

Her eyes dropped to the floor.

The silence stretched—thick, unbearable—the truth sitting between us like something alive. I knew she’d heard me. I knew she understood. She just didn’t have the strength yet to say it out loud.

“And calling the police—that’s not what stopped them,” I went on, my voice barely more than a whisper now. “Those pigs were already here.”

I paused, swallowing hard. “What stopped them was the Ithaca.”

Her breath hitched.

“They ... they were starting to walk upstairs,” she said, her voice trembling. Tears spilled over as the words left her mouth. I think that was when it finally hit her. “The girls were up there. I—I don’t know how much they saw.”

Her voice broke completely. “I—I think Anne ... I think she might have seen them. I think she knows who it was. What really happened. What they were doing.” She shook her head, barely able to go on. “I think she knows more than she’s telling me.”

That was when she broke.

Her shoulders collapsed inward, and a sob tore from her chest. Without thinking, I reached for her and pulled her against me as she cried. I just wanted to hold her—to let her feel safe.

“They didn’t,” I said firmly, holding her tighter, refusing to let her fall apart alone. “They’re safe. Susan’s at our place—she’s with Andrew.”

I swallowed, steadying myself. “She was reading when I left. He was sitting on the floor beside her, playing one of his video games. And the place is locked down tight. People know better than going there uninvited. Even those fucking pigs.”

Her breathing was ragged, uneven.

“And Anne’s at work,” I said gently.

I’d taken her earlier tonight. I’d been taking her for some time now. I didn’t want Candy driving in the dark—not alone. Not yet. I didn’t want her pulled over by one of those fucking animals.

During the day, it was different. I just told her to stay in public places—always. Only drive on the main roads. Never take the side streets.

I knew how people in this community talked. I knew the Sheriff’s Department did, too. And I knew that if anyone tried anything, someone would speak up.

It may have been overkill, but I wanted her—and the girls—to be safe after what I’d seen that night. I no longer trusted the judgment of the local law enforcement. They had made it clear they answered to someone else. Not the community. Not the people they had sworn to protect.

She nodded against me. I could feel her tears soaking through my shirt. My own eyes burned as she struggled to speak.

“Thanks for taking her,” she said between sobs, trying to catch her breath. A small, broken laugh slipped out, only to collapse into more tears. “She’s not even old enough to work. She lied about her age so she could get the job. She wanted to help me.” Her voice wavered. “She’s so afraid I’m going to lose the store.”

Her voice softened, fractured. “She just ... looks so much older than she is. Acts like it, too.” She shook her head slowly. “She’s wearing my heels. She asked if she could wear my pantyhose and one of my skirts to work tonight. She wanted to look put-together—thought it might help her sell more.”

“Is that why she was dressed like that?” I asked.

She nodded. Her breath caught as she went on. “She’s there right now, dressed like a grown woman. A pencil skirt. Hose. Four-inch heels.” Her hands tightened. “Holding herself the way she thinks she’s supposed to.”

Her voice broke. “She should be doing teenage things. Not working. Not dressing herself into someone older just to be taken seriously.” She shook her head again, tears slipping free. “She’s had to grow up so fast.”

I nodded back, unsure what to say. She was dressed up, and with the makeup, she could easily pass for a woman in her mid-twenties. Candy was right—Anne looked older than she really was, and she carried herself that way too.

But it was more than that. She wasn’t naïve. She knew exactly what she was doing—how she was dressed tonight would attract attention. And that was probably the point. She seemed to understand what men wanted. I think she also knew they’d be more willing to buy something if she was all dressed up.

It wasn’t fair. It’s not how things should be. But it was the reality of things.

Yeah. Candy was right—but Anne was also wiser than she should have been. It wasn’t just her looks, or the way she dressed or acted. It was something deeper: awareness, understanding, control.

So, I wasn’t worried. I’d never let a daughter dress like that at her age. But Anne—she could handle herself. I knew she wouldn’t let herself get into a dangerous situation.

And I knew things were different with Anne, anyway. At least, I suspected they were. Candy never said anything outright, but I had a feeling Anne was like her. She didn’t like men—not in that way, anyway.

That knowledge weighed on me, because somewhere along the way, I had fallen in love with Candy. I’d always known our relationship would stay emotional, never crossing that line. Somehow, though, I had made my peace with it.

Loving her like this was still better than not having her, or the girls, in my life at all.

I helped her ease back down and pressed a few tissues into her hand.

“Let me get the coffee,” I said quietly, making sure she was okay before I left her.

I went into the kitchen and poured two mugs. She’d started a pot earlier, expecting a long night—at least until we had to pick Anne up at ten.

For the past three weeks, I’d been spending my evenings here after closing up the shop, helping her piece the bookstore back together. Or trying to.

The place was still a mess. There were no words for the damage.

The front windows were still boarded up. I’d managed to barter some leatherwork in exchange for replacements, but it would be a few more weeks before they could be installed.

Inside, the damage was worse. The bookcases had all been knocked over—and given how old and heavy they were, many had broken apart when they hit the wood floor. Most of them were beyond saving.

We worked our way through the wreckage slowly. Books that could still be sold were stacked carefully. Shelves that might be repaired were set aside. The rest went into a separate pile—pieces we hoped could be cannibalized to fix the others. Maybe the wood could be stripped down and reused. I honestly didn’t know. I knew leather, not wood.

I planned to reach out to some of the local woodworking folks in town, hoping they might be willing to barter—repairs in exchange for something I could offer. I just hadn’t figured out how to approach it. Or what I had that anyone would want.

There were only two carpenters. Which made things worse. One was an attorney who did it in his spare time. The other built furniture for the wealthier families. They had money. I didn’t. And that was the problem.

But at least I was doing something. And by being here, I could keep an eye on Candy and the girls. Selfishly, I admit, I could be with Candy too.

But in the end, I couldn’t be home with Andrew—no matter how exhausted I was after a full day’s work—and know that Candy and the girls were living like this. I just couldn’t.

When Maurice left, things got bad. Worse than I’d expected. I told myself I’d get used to the loneliness. That I’d learn to live with the whispers, the snide remarks about how she’d left me for someone younger. Someone more exciting. And the way she made it so public—putting our lives on display for everyone to judge.

What I hadn’t expected was what it would do to Andrew.

He didn’t understand.

If I’m being honest, neither did I.

I knew I wasn’t easy to get along with. I could be rough around the edges. So, sure, maybe I deserved it. But I never thought she’d abandon her own—that she wouldn’t even fight for him to go with her. That she’d just leave Andrew behind.

What kind of mother does that? Abandon her own son. And I think that’s why I fell in love with Candy—she took in her nieces without hesitation. There was never a question about it. None.

And Candy was there for us. She never offered anything but kindness. Never asked for anything in return. Not once. She and the girls would walk food over—meals they’d made—because I was in no condition to cook. Or, at the time, even to really know how.

They weren’t well off. Candy barely held things together herself. But she shared what little they had with us anyway.

You don’t turn your back on that.

She also let Susan come over to spend time with Andrew, so he’d have a friend. Someone who didn’t ridicule him.

Andrew was different. Not like the other boys. He was unbelievably shy—awkward. Not odd, exactly, just socially awkward. And at fourteen, he was already six-two. He was good-looking too, which only made things worse. Girls noticed him, but because of the way he was, he became a target. Bullied, despite his size and his looks.

Susan stood up for him at school—mostly against the girls who were always stirring trouble. It was the only time she ever spoke up. Otherwise, she was just as socially awkward as Andrew. Standing up for him only caused problems with the other girls. And then Anne would step in to protect her sister—which, in turn, just caused problems for her, too.

But I think that’s why Susan and Andrew gravitated toward each other. Why they got along so well. They understood one another in a way no one else did. And in the same way she protected him, he became fiercely protective of her.

So, I couldn’t turn my back on Candy and the girls. I wouldn’t. And I found myself just as fiercely protective of them as ever.

After what happened, I felt better being here. Not because I thought they’d come back—they wouldn’t.

Everyone in town knew the police report was bullshit. They knew what really happened, even if it wasn’t written down that way. They knew I was here every night—hauling debris, fixing what I could, standing watch while the lights stayed on late.

They also knew my being here was a message. There was no confusion.

If any of them came back—if anyone thought they could finish what they’d started—there wouldn’t be hesitation. I wouldn’t ask questions. I wouldn’t wait.

Candy. The girls. That line was drawn.

And everyone knew it. Some in the community whispered about it. That there was something between me and Candy. But I didn’t care. Fuck them.

I set the mugs down on the coffee table and sat across from her, letting out a long breath.

She’d stopped sobbing, but she was still shaken from earlier.

While we were cleaning, I’d come across an envelope. I’d only had a moment to glance at the contents and found what looked like typed letters—notes, reports, maybe. Hospital paperwork, official-looking. Among them, there might have been a birth certificate, though I couldn’t be sure.

When she saw what I was holding, she got upset. Not angry. Not at me, I don’t think, but at everything—at everyone. And that’s how the conversation started. The one we’d never had about what happened that night.

As we talked, her grief cracked something open, and the truth spilled out. I didn’t help matters by holding nothing back. I couldn’t. She needed to face what had happened. She needed to hear it said out loud. That’s how we ended up back upstairs instead of cleaning the store.

But she was in no condition to continue, anyway. Even if we had stayed downstairs and tried, it wouldn’t have mattered. She needed to grieve. She needed to begin healing.

“They were looking for something, weren’t they?” I asked.