“Paige, I wanted to tell you about something.” I peel the cupcake wrapper off my muffin. “If any man or woman approaches you, and they’re a stranger, don’t talk to them.”

“Is that man coming back?”

“He might. He’s not supposed to, but sometimes people do things they aren’t supposed to.”

“And then they go to jail.”

I pause, not sure how to answer. I don’t know if she’s saying that because of the threat I made to the paparazzi. Or because her uncle is on trial for murder. Or simply because she’s used to jail as a regular part of Monopoly. “Sometimes. Sometimes they go to jail.”

“Are more people coming?”

“They might.”

“Why?”

Paige takes a bite out of the top of her muffin.

In an ideal memory, in an ideal life, I would never have to say these things to my daughter. I would never have to feel this fear. This anger. I would never have to hide it, so she won’t be scared. In my ideal memory, it’s muffins and blue skies forever.

“Other people know about some of the things that happened with your uncle Joe. They know I’m writing a book about it. It makes them want to take pictures.” A stab of regret. “I probably shouldn’t be writing it, Paige. I think it was a mistake.”

“But you’re a writer, Mom.” Paige eats another section of the top of her muffin.

“I brought this on us. It’s because of my book that they want to know more about us. I shouldn’t have done it.” That’s not exactly true. I know that even as I say it. Joe Causey’s trial is naturally public information. A dirty cop who murdered his sister’s husband will always be salacious news. And Mateo Garza will always be a topic of interest. This guy even said he’s been following him for years. It’s more about him than it is about me.

Paige screws up her face and shakes her head. “You said I could do anything. The same way you can do anything, like writing a book.”

“As a job. That’s what I meant. You can choose to be anything you want for a career.”

“You didn’t say it was just jobs,” Paige argues. “You said anything.”

How can I have said that to Paige, and meant it, if I can’t live that myself? Guilt heats my face. Part of living fearlessly in this new version of myself is that I need to speak my truth. I can no longer be in hiding. Not just physically hiding, but emotionally hiding from what had happened.

I’ve spent enough time doing that.