Nash lifts his hands, palms out. “I didn’t… I’m not showing you.”
“Good.” My throat burns. “I don’t want to see it.”
I really don’t.
Because the pictures are a trap, no matter what.
If she looks sad, it’ll tear me apart.
If she looks happy, it’ll tear me apart in a different way.
Screens can lie. Photos can be staged. Smiles can be forced.
And I don’t trust anything that comes from them.
“She looks…” Nash trails off.
“Happy?” I finish bitterly.
He winces. “Like she wants people to think she is.”
That lands harder than anything else he’s said.
Because it’s familiar.
Because I’ve seen that smile before.
Not on Faith, she’s never been good at pretending for long, but on my mom sometimes, when she was holding it together for us after Dad died. On Rose, when she was trying not to cry in front of Ellie. On Boone, when he’s swallowing his own fear because he thinks being the oldest means he has to be unbreakable.
A performative smile.
A survival smile.
I feel ugly heat rise in my throat.
“Why are you doing this to me?” I whisper before I can stop myself.
Nash flinches. “Dallas?—”
“I didn’t ask for updates,” I snap, then immediately regret the edge in my voice. “I didn’t ask for proof. I didn’t ask to see her life being paraded around like…”
A trophy.
A warning.
A message:We have her. Stop looking.
Nash doesn’t take offense. He just looks tired. “Boone’s been digging too. Clay, a little. I told them to stop, but?—”
“They won’t,” I say quietly.
Because they love me.
Because they think if they just find the right detail, the right crack in the story, they can fix this.
Because that’s what McCoy men do. We fix things or die trying.
“I can’t stop them either,” Nash admits. “Every time someone finds something, they come running like it’s proof.”
