Three months later, I hit Travis Mercer.

He deserved it.

That was what I told myself.

He had been talking about my family for weeks.

That day he crossed the line.

“Everybody knows your dad bought the investigation after your mom died.”

I stood.

“Shut up.”

Travis smiled.

“Truth hurt?”

“Walk away.”

“Maybe she knew what kind of family she married into.”

I hit him.

Once.

He hit back.

Then everything became noise.

Teachers.

Students.

Blood.

Security.

Two hours later, I was sitting inside the Fairhaven police station with a split lip.

An officer placed a phone in front of me.

“Who do we call?”

I knew what he expected.

Julian Cavanaugh.

Or one of Dad’s attorneys.

Instead I said, “Eleanor Hargrove.”

The officer frowned.

“Your mother?”

“No.”

“Guardian?”

“No.”

“Then who is she?”

I looked away.

“Just call her.”

Twenty-eight minutes later, the station door opened.

Eleanor walked in wearing jeans, sneakers, and an old gray sweater.

She looked terrified.

Then angry.

Then relieved.

She came straight toward me.

“Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

“Split lip.”

“Anything else?”

“No.”

She turned toward the officer.

“What happened?”

“Fight at school. Other student required stitches.”

Eleanor closed her eyes.

“Landon.”

“He started it.”

“I don’t care.”

“He talked about Mom.”

That stopped her.

“What did he say?”

I stared at the floor.

“He said Dad covered up the investigation. Said Mom knew what our family really was.”

Eleanor sat beside me.

“And?”

“And I hit him.”

“Did hitting him make those words disappear?”

“No.”

“Did it bring your mother back?”

“No.”

“Did it protect her?”

I looked at her angrily.

“No.”

“Then what did it do?”

I had no answer.

The station door opened again.

Damian entered first.

Then my father.

Two lawyers followed.

Dad looked at me.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes.”

He turned to the officer.

“My attorneys will handle—”

“No.”

Everyone looked at me.

Dad frowned.

“What?”

“I don’t want them handling it.”

“You asNextlted another student.”

“I know.”

“Then you need representation.”

“I’ll take whatever suspension they give me.”

Dad stared.

“Landon—”

Eleanor stood.

“He called me.”

Father looked at her.

“I know.”

“He called me because he knew I wouldn’t erase what happened.”

Silence.

My father’s expression changed.

“You think that’s what I do?”

I answered before Eleanor could.

“Yes.”

That hurt him.

I could see it.

“Every time we screw up, you fix it with money,” I said. “Every time something happens, lawyers show up. Nobody talks about anything.”

Father lowered his voice.

“I was protecting you.”

“No. You were making problems disappear.”

Damian said quietly, “He’s right.”

Father turned.

“You too?”

Damian folded his tattooed arms.

“All four of us.”

Dad looked around.

For once, Julian Cavanaugh had no answer.

Eleanor finally said, “Take your son home.”

Father looked at her.

“And then?”

“Talk to him.”

He gave a bitter laugh.

“You make it sound simple.”

“It isn’t.”

She looked at all of us.

“But disappearing is easier, and look where that got you.”

Nobody argued.

That night, my father sat at the kitchen table with us until three in the morning.

No lawyers.

No assistants.

No phones.

Just us.

For the first time, he told us why he had buried himself in work after Mom died.

“I couldn’t walk through this house,” he admitted. “Every room reminded me of her.”

Noah’s voice cracked.

“So you left us here instead?”

Dad looked at him.

“Yes.”

That single word changed something.

Because he didn’t defend himself.

Cole stared down.

“We thought you didn’t want us.”

“I thought providing for you was enough.”

“It wasn’t,” Damian said.

“I know that now.”

Eleanor stood near the doorway.

Dad looked at her.

“Sit with us.”

She hesitated.

Then pulled out a chair.

And for the first time in years, there were six people around the Cavanaugh kitchen table.

Nobody ran.

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