My phone buzzes with a notification. A direct message from an account I don’t recognize—@truth_finder79—with no profile picture. Probably spam. I tap it anyway.
The message loads, and my blood turns to ice water.
I know what happened at the Henderson house. I know what Richard did to you.
My phone slips from suddenly numb fingers, clattering to the hardwood floor. The room spins as memories I’ve spent years burying claw their way to the surface.
Richard Henderson. Foster parent number three. The broken ankle. The locked basement door. The camera.
I lunge for my phone, hands trembling so violently I can barely grip it. I read the message again, hoping I had hallucinated it. The words remain unchanged, accusatory black text against white.
No one knows about the Hendersons. I never reported what happened. Never told a soul. Not even my therapist knows the details.
I check the profile—created three days ago, no posts, no followers. The username offers nothing. My finger hovers over the block button, but something stops me.
How do they know?
My chest constricts, each breath becoming increasingly difficult. I force myself to inhale deeply, using the grounding techniques that got me through the worst panic attacks after I aged out of the system.
Five things I can see.
The glass coffee table.
The city skyline through floor-to-ceiling windows.
Cyrus’s leather jacket draped over a chair.
My ballet shoes by the door.
The message still glaring on my screen.
Four things I can touch.
The soft fabric of Cyrus’s sweater.
The cool leather of the couch.
My hair falling against my cheek.
The hard case of my phone, now slick with sweat.
Three things I can hear.
My own ragged breathing.
Traffic forty floors below.
The hum of the refrigerator.
The Henderson house. Richard.
Who could possibly know?
I stare at the message, my vision blurring at the edges. Richard Henderson. Third foster home in a system that promised safety but delivered anything but.
I was thirteen. Old enough to fight back, but young enough to believe I deserved what happened.
The basement had a single lightbulb. The camera was set up in the corner. His voice was soft and reasonable as he explained that this was how I earned my keep in his household. The click of the deadbolt when he left.
