My hands started to shake. Kimmy noticed it. She squeezed both my hands with hers. "It's okay," she whispered. "Don't worry. It's okay, Milo."
She'd never said my name like that before with this much reverence. My real name, the one I'd barely gotten used to.
I looked over at her. She smiled, and this time I wasn't scared at all.
I drew a deep breath and opened the door.
Kimmy got out of the car too and took my hand.
Together we crossed the street and approached the house.
The woman with dark hair—Priscilla—was already at the fence gate.
As we got closer, I noticed the burn.
It crept up the left side of her neck and disappeared under the collar of her dress, the skin there a patchwork of slick, pink ridges. My own scars itched in sympathy and I stumbled.
Kimmy must've sensed it. She squeezed my hand harder, pulled me forward until we reached the gate.
"Hi there," Priscilla said, assessing us with her sharp gaze. She had a strong voice, a voice of someone who didn't mince words and said everything that was on her mind.
"Hi," I replied, forcing myself to sound normal.
"Can I help you?" she asked. "You've been parked on my block for over an hour."
For a moment, the script failed me. I swallowed, then started over. "Are you Priscilla Johnson?"
She glanced at Kimmy, then back at me. "Yeah. Who wants to know?"
I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.
Kimmy stepped in, her voice gentle but sharp enough to ward off the panic. "We're not selling anything, I promise. We just need a minute."
Priscilla stared. She had the kind of presence that dared you to lie just to catch you.
I felt my lungs grind against the inside of my ribs. I looked down at my shoes, at the blue nail polish on Kimmy's toes.
It's now or never.
Then I said it, "Milo."
The world stood still for a few seconds.
Priscilla's face cracked open. Not a smile—more like a structural failure, a flood of confusion and disbelief, and something raw underneath. Her mouth made a silent O.
"What?" she asked.
"I'm Milo," I repeated. "Milo Mercer. And you were Priscilla Mercer before you married."
"Oh my God," she whispered. Her hand went to her neck, covering the burn as if it could be hidden. She studied my face, studied my body, my posture, even Kimmy.
Nobody moved. We just let the silence spin out, let the pieces fall in slow motion.
"You're not…" she started. Then, "They told me you died."
"They lied," I said. "I was adopted." This was true. I'd been officially adopted by Father.
She stared, eyes huge and suddenly wet. For a long minute, she didn't do anything. Then she yanked the gate open and closed the gap between us, slamming into me so hard my teeth clicked together.
