Chapter 3
Jenna
I surface in pieces.
Not all the way. The pain won’t let me. The dull roar in my head keeps time with my heartbeat like a metronome set to miserable. But somewhere beneath the hurt, there’s warmth. A blanket. The smell of coffee and wood smoke and something baking.
Voices.
I can’t open my eyes. The lids are too heavy, glued shut with exhaustion. But my ears work. My ears have always been my first line of defense. In foster care, you learn to read a house by its sounds before you ever open your eyes. The scrape of a chair means someone’s awake. A door slamming means trouble. Silence means you’ve been forgotten, or you’re about to be.
This house has steady sounds. The tick of a clock. And two sets of boots, heavy on the wooden floor.
A new voice hits the room like a fist on a table.
“What the fuck is going on?”
Deep. Bigger than the room. Not the voice I’ve been falling asleep to for six months. This one carries authority like a man who’s used to being obeyed and can’t fathom why he wasn't consulted.
“Who the hell is that on our couch?”
“Keep your voice down.” Ethan. Quiet but immovable. I know that tone. He uses it on the phone when he’s telling me something that isn’t a suggestion. “She’s hurt.”
“I can see she’s hurt. That doesn’t answer my question.”
A weighted pause.
“I think it’s Jenna.”
“Who’s Jenna?”
“The woman I’ve been talking to for the last six months.”
“Talking to. From where?”
“Marlie’s Angels.”
A set of boots shifts. As if the name of the agency Marlie runs is a reassurance.
“Six months.” The big voice is quieter now but no less sharp. “Why didn’t we know about this?”
“Because it was private.”
“Ethan—”
“Daniel.” A woman’s voice. Warm but firm, the tone of someone who’s learned exactly how to handle big men with bigger reactions. “Not now.”
Footsteps. Lighter than the men’s. Coming closer.
The blanket shifts. Not pulled away but adjusted. Tucked more securely around my shoulders and smoothed down with a careful hand. Then fingers near my face, feather-light, checking the edge of a small bandage above my eye without disturbing it.
I know this touch. I’ve been on the receiving end of it exactly twice in my life: once from Mrs. Reeves, who cut my toast into triangles and sang to me when my skin flared. And once from a caseworker named Linda, who held my hand in the back of a sedan and said, “I’m sorry, sweetheart. This one didn’t work out either.”
Through my lashes, I catch a sliver: dark hair pulled back. Brown eyes, velvet and warm, scanning my face with focused attention. She’s young—not much older than me, if at all—but she carries herself like a woman who’s been responsible for other people since long before anyone asked her to be.
“She’s hot,” the woman murmurs over her shoulder to the room. “Has anyone checked her temperature since the doctor left?”
“I’ve been monitoring her.” Ethan’s voice is closer now, strained in a way I haven’t heard before, like my high temperature is his fault.
