Lily pociągnęła nosem. "Przyszli jak zwykle. Ich srebrny samochód. Pobiegłem do niej."
Jej głos drżał, ale przetrwała, jakby chciała, żebym znał każdy szczegół.
"Chciałem otworzyć drzwi... a babcia go nie otworzyła. Trochę opuściła szybę."
Moje dłonie zacisnęły się na kierownicy.
“What did she say, baby?”
Lily’s eyes filled again. “She said… ‘Walk home in the rain like a stray.’”
I felt like I’d been slapped. Not because it was shocking—my family had always had a way of cutting—but because it was said to my child. My six-year-old.
“And Grandpa?” I asked, already dreading the answer.
“He leaned over and said, ‘We don’t have room for you.’”
Lily’s lower lip trembled.
“I told them it was raining. I told them it was far. I said, ‘Please, it’s pouring.’”
She hugged her arms around herself, as if remembering the cold.
“And then Aunt Miranda was there,” Lily continued. “She looked at me like… like she didn’t care.”
That name lit something ugly inside me. Miranda—my sister, the family’s chosen center of gravity. The one everything bent toward, no matter who got crushed.
“She said her kids deserved the comfy ride,” Lily whispered. “And Bryce and Khloe were in the back. Dry. They just looked at me.”
My vision blurred with rage. I blinked hard, forcing myself to stay calm because Lily was watching my face for clues about whether she was safe.
“So they drove away?” I said.
Lily nodded, tears spilling over. “I stood there and I didn’t know what to do. I thought you would come, but… I didn’t know if you knew.”
My throat burned. I reached across the console and held her hand.
