The night clung to me like a second skin.
I moved with the trees, careful not to snap a branch or rustle too many leaves. I kept my distance from the farmhouse, circling it like a wary predator, watching for movement through the grimy windows. From a low branch, I saw her—my mother—carrying a bucket of water inside. I saw the little girl—Kiani—dragging a broom twice her size across the floor.
And I saw him.
John.
Thick-necked. Red-eyed. Always pacing. Always growling under his breath. The kind of man whose silence was louder than his yelling. A bully forged from anger and bad choices.
I hated him.
But I couldn't afford hate. Not yet. I needed a plan. I needed to reach my mother, speak to her—somehow—without setting off alarm bells.
So I waited. I watched.
And that's when I made my mistake.
I stepped too close to the back fence. Just a few feet. Enough to see more clearly through the half-open back door. I wanted to hear her voice. Just for a moment.
