I can’t move. I can’t speak. My lungs lock as if they have forgotten how to work.
Behind her, just out of frame, a voice drifts in.
It is Grant’s voice, calm and measured, and he is enjoying every second of this.
“Here’s your last chance, Samantha,” he says. “Tell your boy the truth.”
She sobs, her shoulders curling inward as much as the restraints allow. “I love you so much. I never stopped. I swear to you, I never stopped.”
The edges of my vision blur, and the room narrows until there is nothing left but the screen.
“I’m so sorry,” she sobs, her voice breaking apart. “I’m so sorry for leaving. I didn’t protect you from him. I regret it every day. I didn’t know you were alive.”
She looks down for a second, then forces her gaze back up, terror flooding her eyes. “I thought you were dead. I thought Richard killed you. That’s why I didn’t come back. I thought I had already lost you.”
Grant’s voice cuts in again.
“Time’s running out.”
Brooke shifts beside me, close enough that I can feel the heat of her body, but she doesn't touch me. She doesn't speak. She just watches.
Samantha leans forward as far as the ropes allow, and her voice drops, softer now, like she is talking to a child.
“You’ll always be my baby. My little boy in the pumpkin hat.”
Every memory I buried comes back at once.
They didn't come in order. They didn't give me time to breathe. They hit hard and fast, stacking on top of each other until I couldn't separate one from the next.
I saw the park. Luke ran ahead while I chased him, both of us yelling while she called after us to slow down. I heard her laugh, clear and real in a way I hadn't let myself remember.
I saw the floor of our old place. Colored pencils scattered everywhere. My hand moved across the paper while she sat beside me, guiding my fingers, showing me how to shade, how to add depth, how to make something look real.
I saw her waiting outside school. Every time. She never missed it.
It kept coming, faster, heavier, until it landed on the one memory I had kept buried deeper than the rest.
IHOP.
My eighth birthday. Right before she left.
I sat across from her in the booth. She slid the box across the table, smiling, like she couldn’t wait for me to see it.
I opened it and saw the model car.
A ‘67 black Chevy Impala.
She told me it looked fast enough to outrun the world. Like maybe I could too someday.
I held it in my hands and understood, even then, that it was more than just a car. It mattered because it came from her.
And she was everything to me.
My throat tightens so hard it feels like it is closing.
Grant steps into frame.
The gun is already in his hand. He presses the barrel against her temple, forcing her head slightly to the side while his grip remains steady.
