“What happened?” He strives for calm, but concern seeps in, something else too. “Did they hurt you?”

“No.” I find the tag again, ready to rip it to shreds. “I was in my bedroom when they broke through the window. There was a covered access panel in my closet. Bea said it was for utilities, and I crawled inside to hide—essentially between the closet wall and the living room’s. They searched the house, but it sat off the floor, and with the random clothes hanging, they must have missed the cover.”

“Fuck.”

“They hurt Roman, though,” I admit. “They beat him, calling him the most heinous shit, telling him what they’d do when they found me. I was literally on the other side of the drywall. I heard them and Roman and when they cocked the gun.” I stop, needing a second, and Foster stays quiet.

The memories don’t even feel like mine. I’m watching the terrified girl, hand covering her mouth to keep from making noise, tears rolling over the back of her hand.

“One of them tore through the house again. They kept trying to force Roman to tell them where I was, but eventually, they called Daniel. I guess killing only one of us would make it harder to cover their tracks. They put him on speaker and let him personally threaten Roman. Warned if he so much as heard whispers of either of our names again, he’d go after Sage and Roman’s parents. He also swore to make it worse for me and make Roman watch before he killed us.”

“Remi.” It’s all he says, silence floating between us for a second.

“I was so stupid, Foster. I avoided him tracking my phone, I never accessed accounts, Roman went through so much to steer clear of a paper trail. And then I led them straight there to nearly kill him. I don’t know how. I was so paranoid driving back and constantly checking behind me.”

“It’s not your fault,” he rasps, and the sadness in his voice hurts me too.

Roman said the same thing, and I didn’t believe him either.

“Either way, I couldn’t put his life at risk like that again. The chance of them going after anyone because of me terrified me. I barely existed for a long time, having panic attacks all the time. Even after Roman moved us to New York, registered me for classes at NYU, and forced me to attend. Then I took Heath’s class, and he gave me no choice but to be out in the world.” I half-smile, remembering the hell he put me through, but I’m so grateful for the man. “I still had panic attacks when he first booked a flight with my name or when he credited me in a video. Eventually they stopped. And I let myself look for the beautiful things again.”