There’s no heat in it, just fact.
"I know." He meets my eyes, pain settled deep. "I made a choice—the wrong choice, probably—to stay away."
"Mom said you promised to stay away. That you agreed to it."
"I did. To keep you safe. From Scott."
The name sits between us like a landmine.
"Scott's dead," I say flatly. "Has been for a while now."
"I know. I heard. That's why I'm here. Because the reason I stayed away—the threat he posed—is gone. And I thought maybe it was time to stop being a coward."
I study him.
He doesn't look dangerous. Doesn't look desperate. He just looks tired. And sad. And hopeful in a way that's almost painful.
"Your mother told me when she found out she was pregnant. She was terrified about what Scott would do. He was already showing signs of violence. She thought distance was safer. And I agreed."
He runs a hand through his hair—my gesture.
"I wanted to come back, to take you both away. But Scott and his family had too much money, too much power."
"And you never tried to reach out after?"
"I did. Once. When you were eight. Your mother said Scott had gotten worse. That any contact from me would put you and her in danger."
There’s shame visible in his shoulders.
"So I stopped. Figured the best thing I could do was disappear completely."
"And you did."
"Not by choice." He pauses. "I was sent to prison. Six years. False drug charge. Heroin possession with intent to distribute." His jaw tightens. "If I was to guess how the drugs were planted, I wouldn't need many guesses."
Scott.
Of course it was Scott.
The anger drains out of me, replaced by something colder.
Heavier.
Grief so profound my chest aches.
Scott didn't just abuse me. He didn't just terrorize my mother. He orchestrated the removal of the one person who could have protected us. Who could have taken us away. Who could have given me a different childhood.
Dominic was in prison for six years on a false charge while I was growing up thinking no one cared enough to stay.
And Scott made sure of it.
I look at Dominic—really look at him—and see a man who's carried this for twenty-eight years. Who lost his son, lost the woman he loved, lost six years of his life.
And still came here today, hoping it wasn't too late.
"I'm sorry," I say, voice rough. "For what he did to you."
His eyes widen. "You have nothing to apologize for. You were a kid."
