I suddenly felt raw and exposed. Every person who came through Hope House had a story. And the parents who were there in an attempt to make a better life for their children always got to me the most. I wished my mother had been strong enough to do that. And if there was ever a need that wasn’t covered by the center, sometimes I stepped in. But I had no idea that Mason had seen so much of it.

“I…” I wasn’t sure how to finish that sentence, how to even start it.

“Don’t worry, I won’t share your secret with the world. But I also won’t have you signing some ugly paperwork that demeans the friendship we have. I trust you, and I’m not going to let my sister’s doubts create issues here.”

There was that friendship word again. One I both loved and hated. I pushed it from my mind and focused on Mason. “You never mention your parents. Are they not in your lives?”

The movement was slight, but I still saw it. A subtle stiffening of his shoulders, the twitch of his fingers as they tightened around his knee. “They’re dead.”

Mason’s voice was flat as he said it. Not tinged with grief the way it might have been if he’d lost them to disease or a tragic accident. This was something else. I stayed quiet. There was an implied request for more in my silence, but I wouldn’t push. I wouldn’t make him tell me anything, even though he knew more about me than I’d shared with anyone since my time in juvie.

His gaze shifted to the trees beyond the pool, to the lake that peeked out from between them. “My father drove our car into a lake. He almost killed my sister and me. And he did kill my mother and himself.”

15

MASON

Anna sucked in an audible breath, but I couldn’t make myself turn back to face her. This wasn’t something I shared. Not with anyone. Cain knew, but not because I’d told him but because it would’ve come up in his extensive background check before offering me the job to head his company. Juliette and I never spoke of it because she didn’t remember—too young and traumatized when it happened to have it stick in her brain.

But it had stuck in mine. Cemented itself into my bones, resurfacing every so often to taunt me. The screaming and crying. My mother’s panicked wailing. Her begging me to get Juliette out when her seat belt stuck. The way my father didn’t seem to hear any of it.

Fingers curled around my forearm. “I’m so sorry. Those words aren’t nearly enough, but I don’t have better ones.”