A bitter laugh scraped its way up my throat, but it came out sounding more like a strangled breath. I staggered back, gripping the doorframe, the edges of my vision blurring.

I had never felt so powerless in my life—not even during my years in the foster care system.

What had I done?

I thought leaving would protect Beverly.

I thought pushing her away would make things easier.

But I had been wrong.

I had been so, so fucking wrong.

I stormed toward the door, every breath coming in ragged, uneven pulls.

If she wouldn’t tell me, I’d find out on my own.

I’d go to San Francisco.

I’d knock on every goddamn door if I had to.

50

BEVERLY, 1999

17 years old

Four months had passed since I packed my bag in the middle of the night, left a note on Mom’s nightstand, and took the first train out of town before the sun had even bothered to rise.

I spent everything I had saved on that ticket. I didn’t even have enough left for a cab, so I dragged my suitcase across the city in the fading light until my arms ached and my feet bled.

Aunt Mary had been waiting at the door with a blanket, a tea, and no questions. I think she saw the look on my face and knew everything she needed to know.

Her house smelled like cinnamon and roasted coffee beans. It always had. The scent clung to the air like a comfort blanket, softening the sharp edges of my grief.

Some days, I convinced myself I was getting better. Other days, I cried so hard into my pillow that I woke up with a sore throat and damp sheets.

Most mornings, I opened her little café with her—half-asleep, apron strings tangled behind my back. It was tucked between a laundromat and a bookstore, the kind of place with chalkboard menus and mismatched mugs. It wasn’t fancy, but it was warm—soft lighting, good music, walls painted in deep, calming colors.

I worked the register. I poured espresso shots. I wiped down tables and forced smiles at strangers who never looked long enough to see the cracks. It was quiet work, and I liked it that way.

I hadn’t seen Blake since I left. The first time Blake texted me, I threw my phone into the garbage. Aunt Mary fished it out later, wiped it off, and left it charging on my nightstand without a word. I didn’t touch it for twenty-six days.

Some nights, I typed out responses in my head—angry ones, heartbroken ones, ones filled with questions he’d never answered and memories I didn’t know how to forget.