Chapter 7 - CHLOE’S RECKONING
The next morning, the sun broke through the mountain fog, casting a bright, cold light over the autumn leaves in the hospital courtyard.
Lily was sleeping peacefully, her fever finally down to 99 degrees, her skin pale but cool to the touch. The IV line had been removed, replaced by a small, colorful bandage with cartoon bears on it.
The door to the room creaked open.
Chloe stood in the doorway. She was wearing her school jacket, her backpack slumped over one shoulder, her face tired and pale. She looked at me, then at Lily, her eyes filled with a quiet, anxious fear.
“Can I come in?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
“Of course, Chloe,” I said, pulling a chair up to the side of the bed.
She sat down, her fingers twisting the straps of her backpack. She didn't look at my face—she couldn't bear to look at the bruise she had filmed.
“My mom is furious,” Chloe said, her voice shaking. “She’s calling me a traitor. She said I ruined the family. She said Brian’s campaign is over and it’s all my fault.”
I reached out, my hand wrapping around her cold fingers. “Chloe, look at me.”
She slowly raised her eyes.
“You didn't ruin this family,” I said softly. “You saved us. If you hadn't recorded that, Brian’s uncle would have buried the report. They would have taken Lily away from me, and they would have kept hurting both of us. You did the hardest thing anyone in that house has ever done. You spoke the truth.”
A tear slid down Chloe’s cheek, her shoulders shaking slightly as she let out a long, shuddering breath. “I’ve watched them do it for years, Aunt Megan. I watched Donna treat my dad like dirt until he left. I watched Brian scream at you in the kitchen when they thought no one was listening. I didn't want Lily to grow up thinking that’s what love looks like.”
“It’s not,” I said, pulling her into a tight, gentle hug. “And because of you, she’ll never have to find out.”
Behind us, the door opened again.
May you like
A tall woman in a dark grey tailored suit walked into the room. She had sharp, intelligent eyes, her silver hair cut into a neat bob, her leather briefcase carried with the ease of a woman who owned every room she entered.
“Megan?” she asked. “I’m Clara Mercer. The state police recommended I contact you. I’m an estate and family law specialist from Atlanta, and I think we have some work to do.”
