Chapter 2: The Truth Hurts Worse Than Hunger

Before I went to the bathroom, Elliot said, “Wait a minute.”

His voice echoed off the tile floor, and he darted past me toward the bathroom, shutting the door behind him for a moment. I heard cupboards open and water running—he was cleaning up, making sure it was safe.

He closed the door. I heard the sound of water running in the bathtub.

“All right, you can go in now.”

He stood by the door, arms folded, watching me with that same guarded look. I tried not to make a mess or touch anything I shouldn’t.

After I finished, I noticed faint bloodstains on the edge of the tub, and there was a knife on the floor.

My heart skipped. My stomach twisted, and for a second, I thought about running. But Mom always said to be brave. I tried to be brave, but my hands shook as I washed them, glancing again at the rusty streak on the porcelain.

When I came out, I asked worriedly, “Daddy, are you hurt?”

I was scared, but my voice was gentle, like maybe if I was careful enough, I could help him the way Mom used to help me.

Elliot’s lips pressed into a thin line. “No.”

He didn’t meet my eyes, and he tugged his sleeve down to hide his bandage. His voice sounded sharp, but underneath I heard something like shame.

“That’s good.” I let out a sigh of relief, my spirits lifting again.

I relaxed a little, letting out the breath I’d been holding since I saw the bathroom.

“Daddy, your apartment is so big.”

I spun in a slow circle, taking in the high ceilings, the big windows, the way everything looked clean but also kind of empty. It reminded me of those home makeover shows Mom liked to watch.

“It’s as big and pretty as Mr. Grant’s house.”

Except his had a big backyard, a swing set, and always smelled like new furniture. This place was quieter, lonelier.

“Mom said you’re amazing, even more amazing than Mr. Grant. She really didn’t lie to me.”

I grinned, remembering the way Mom’s eyes sparkled when she talked about him, even if her voice sometimes got sad.

Elliot asked, “You have another dad?”

He sounded suspicious, like he was piecing together a puzzle with missing pieces. His gaze flicked from me to the photo frames on the shelf.

I nodded. “Mom was with Mr. Grant before, but he wasn’t good to her. After Mom got sick and passed away, Mr. Grant married someone else.”

I shifted my weight from foot to foot, unsure if I should say more. But the truth spilled out, anyway.

“Your mom passed away?”

His voice softened a fraction, almost too quiet to hear.

“Mm.” Mentioning Mom, I wiped my eyes sadly.

My sleeves got wet, and I sniffled. I missed her so much my chest hurt.

Elliot frowned. “What’s Mr. Grant’s first name?”

I hesitated, wondering if he’d be mad if I told him.

“Carter.”

He paused. “And your mom?”

“Anna Mitchell.”

“Do you have a photo?”

Oh, right.

I dug through my backpack, careful not to bend the corners, and handed him Mom’s only photo. The edges were soft from being held so much.

Elliot stared at the photo, his gaze suddenly sharpening.

His eyes grew wide for a moment, then narrowed. His Adam’s apple bobbed like he was swallowing something sharp. He looked like someone just punched him in the gut and he was trying not to show it.

His expression grew complicated, as if he was caught up in memories. Though he tried hard to suppress his emotions, his hand holding the photo frame still trembled slightly.

He ran his thumb over the picture, then quickly wiped it on his jeans, as if embarrassed by his own feelings.

After a while, he tugged at the corner of his mouth, his tone mocking. “Your mom is Anna Rivers?”

There was a bite to the way he said her name, like it was a joke he was tired of hearing.

Mom once told me her real name was Anna Mitchell. Anna Rivers was the name she got after coming to this world. Only Dad and I knew that.

But now it seems Dad still doesn’t know.

I could only nod. “Yeah.”

I wished I could explain more, but I knew he wouldn’t believe me. Sometimes, secrets were better kept close.

Elliot squatted down, searching my face as if trying to find traces of himself.

He peered into my eyes, looking for something—maybe a curve of a nose or a chin that matched his own. I held my breath, hoping he’d find what he was looking for.

“You... how old are you?” His voice was hoarse.

I answered softly, “Six.”

My voice barely above a whisper. The number sounded small and lonely in the empty apartment.

The hope in his eyes faded instantly. He stood up and spoke with self-mockery, “It wasn’t enough for her to trick me herself—now she wants you to trick me too?”

His words stung, even if I didn’t really understand. I watched his face harden, a mask dropping back into place.