Chapter 1: The Day Secrets Broke

When I was a kid, my younger brother was trafficked.

Those words still echo in my mind. Sharp, like the wind that cuts through our valley in upstate Maine. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever be able to say it out loud without my voice catching. But it’s the truth, and there’s no changing it now.

The year I graduated from college, his real parents tracked us down.

It was supposed to be a summer of new beginnings for me, but instead, everything unraveled. I still remember how the air pressed down, thick and heavy. It was like the whole valley was holding its breath, waiting for the storm.

My mom cried and screamed, refusing to let him go, while my dad waved a kitchen knife, threatening to hurt someone. But what they didn’t know? I was the one who’d tipped off his real parents. Anonymously.

The memory of that day is seared into my bones. I was the ghost in the room. The one who set it all in motion. I didn’t say a word.

A few days ago, my mom called me in a panic, begging me to come home immediately. Nosy neighbors crowded around our house, eager for the drama. Mrs. Jenkins from next door saw me pull in and hurried over, chattering nonstop.

The valley isn’t the sort of place where secrets last long. Word travels faster than the river in spring thaw. Especially with Mrs. Jenkins on the case.

"Maggie, your brother’s real parents are here! Oh lord, you should see it—they drove up in some fancy car, police and everything, even a news crew from Portland! There’s a whole crowd blocking your porch!"

She fanned herself with her hand, eyes wide, relishing every detail. I could barely process her words.

I could hear my mom wailing from behind the screen door. The police were shouting, trying to calm her down, mixed with angry curses from unfamiliar men and women.

The porch creaked under the weight of so many feet. There was a charged energy, like a thunderstorm about to break. My heart pounded.

I took a deep breath. Was about to go in when my mom spotted me. She grabbed my sleeve and dragged me inside.

Her grip was so tight I almost lost my balance. The neighbors craned their necks, hungry for a better look.

"Danny, your sister’s home! Weren’t you always closest to her? We’re family, remember?"

Her voice was shrill, desperate. Like she could will things back to the way they were, just by saying it loud enough.

Danny looked up, eyes wide.

He called me "sis," then, ignoring everyone trying to stop him, rushed into my arms.

He collided with me, nearly knocking me off my feet. His arms wrapped around my waist, small but strong, and I could feel his heart racing against mine. In that moment, it felt like nothing else existed.

A proud smile flickered across my mom’s face. But before she could even finish smiling, Danny shattered the hope she’d just rekindled.

Her lips were still curled in relief. Then Danny turned to me, eyes shining with something fierce and new.

"I want to go with my real dad and mom!" he said, looking up at me, each word clear.

His voice didn’t tremble. He looked straight at me, his chin tilted up, like he was daring me to stop him. My breath caught. I didn’t know what to say.

In his eyes, I saw confusion. Then longing. Reluctance. Finally, determination.

A whole storm of feelings passed across his face—like clouds moving over the sun. I wanted to reach out, to hold him tighter. But I knew it wouldn’t change a thing.

Everyone was stunned. The porch fell silent. I barely dared to breathe.

You could have heard a pin drop. Even the birds seemed to hush. The world paused. Just for a heartbeat.

It wasn’t until my dad charged out of the house with a knife that everyone snapped out of it. The spell broke.

The scene turned chaotic in a flash. My father’s shouts, police radios crackling, my mother’s sobs—all of it blurred together. The Parkers shielded Danny, hustling him toward their car as cameras flashed. I stood frozen, watching the only brother I’d ever known disappear into the crowd.

I’d been standing in the shadows, trying not to be noticed. But the last reporter, as if suddenly remembering something, turned back and thrust a microphone in my face:

I tried to melt into the background. But the news folks always know where to look for a story.

"You’re Danny Hayes’s sister. Did you know your brother was trafficked, that your parents bought him?"

The microphone was cold and close. The world seemed to tilt for a second. I could see my own reflection in the camera lens—a stranger’s face, pale and drawn. I barely recognized myself.

Of course I knew. I’d always known.

I was nine when Danny joined our family.

That day was July 13th, but in our house, it felt like Thanksgiving—food everywhere, everyone pretending to be happy.

I remember the smell of fried onions and the sound of laughter. My mom’s hands trembling as she counted the bills, the stranger’s face hidden in shadow. The air was thick with excitement. And something darker I couldn’t name.

My mom cooked up a feast—roast beef, mashed potatoes, pies cooling on the windowsill. My dad cried with snot and tears, saying he could finally face his ancestors.

It was the kind of feast we only had on holidays—roast beef, mashed potatoes, pies cooling on the windowsill. My father’s sobs were messy and loud, his pride plain for everyone to see. It was the first time I saw him cry.

I was happy. Really happy. For once.

I thought maybe, just maybe, I’d finally have a place in this family.

To be honest, after Danny came, things were peaceful. For a while.

He was a quiet baby, wide-eyed and curious. I’d sneak him toys, leftover cookies.

Until the day I accidentally spilled hot water on Danny’s hand. My mom slapped me three times without a word.

It happened so fast. The mug slipped. Danny screamed. Before I could even think, my mother’s hand found my cheek.

That day, Danny had been fussy all along. I secretly scooped a spoonful of sugar to make him some sweet water, but my hands slipped and the hot water spilled onto his hand. My mom was doing laundry on the back porch at the time. Hearing Danny cry, she rushed in and hit me hard.