He didn’t reply. The last thing I’d said hung between us. You don’t know.

“Mom had a talk with me when you came to live with us,” he said softly.

I realized then what should have been obvious: Cady knew. Of course she knew. She’d adopted me. She’d been a part of the search. She’d probably seen this file.

Cady knew. Jude knew.

“Mom said not to ask you about it—not unless you brought it up first. She said…” Jude swallowed, his Adam’s apple tensing against his skin. “She said that if the worst thing you could remember was the forest, then maybe that was a blessing. She said that it was our job to protect you.”

At some point in Jude’s confession, my grip on the file must have loosened, because I dropped it. A gust of wind blew the folder open. My past—the statements, the pictures—scattered.

Anyone could see them.

I lunged, stumbling to my knees to get them back. Jude knelt beside me, his fingers capturing a wayward page. I ripped it away from him.

“Go,” I said.

“You don’t mean that.”

“You lied to me,” I said, my voice eerily calm, even to my own ears. “My whole life—you knew, and you kept this from me.” I’d told Bales not to send Jude out here. And now I was naked and raw and bleeding, and Jude wouldn’t leave.

“I’ve been keeping things from you, too,” I heard myself say. “Bales is dying.” I wanted to stop, but I couldn’t. Sometimes, a wounded animal nipped as a warning.

And sometimes it bit to draw blood.

“Cady knows,” I continued, “but she won’t forgive him. She won’t stay.”

Hurting Jude didn’t make me hurt any less.

“Ash isn’t your father. He had a thing for Cady, but she had one for Mac.” I pulled the Saint Jude pendant from the pocket of my jeans and held it out to the boy who’d been my anchor, my friend, my everything before I’d known how to be anything back. “Mac gave me this.” I nodded to the medallion as Jude took the necklace from my hand. “That’s his patron saint.”

“Saint Jude.” Jude’s voice was as quiet as mine now.

He left.

Chapter 43

I chased down most of the pages, but a few got away from me. Within an hour, I was tired of looking and done running after ghosts. Most of all, I was sick of replaying my conversation with Jude. I’d hurt him. I’d known I was doing it, and I’d done it anyway, and why?

Because he knew what I was, what I’d survived. He’d always known—and maybe he thought he’d been protecting me. Maybe he and Cady had done what needed to be done, but I didn’t want to be that girl.