Page 162 of Hades

Lettie turned slowly, her face pale, her eyes moving between me and the woman she thought was her mother.

Hades moved. His body shifted to put himself between Lettie and the threat he couldn’t yet see but knew was coming.

Apollo made a broken sound, like something inside him had finally shattered after holding together for decades.

“No,” Lettie whispered. “No, that’s not... her name is Carol. Carol Foster. She’s my mother.”

“Her name is Claire Morrison,” I said. Each word was precise. Clinical. Because if I let emotion in, I’d kill her right here in front of everyone. “And she kidnapped my daughter.”

The festival continued around us. People laughing. Children screaming. Music playing from speakers somewhere down the street. The smell of kettle corn and barbecue and too many bodies pressed together.

Normal.

Everything was normal except for the bomb that had just detonated in the center of booth seventeen.

Lettie’s face went from pale to white. Her hands trembled as she set the jar down carefully, like she was afraid if she moved too fast, everything would shatter.

“I don’t understand,” she said, her voice barely audible. “What are you talking about?”

“Lettie,” Apollo said, his voice breaking on her name. “Your real name is Colette. Colette Rush. You’re my sister.”

“No.” Lettie shook her head and backed up a step. “No, that’s not... I’m Violet Foster. I’ve always been Violet Foster.”

Hades’ arm wrapped around her waist, holding her up. Keeping her grounded while her entire world restructured around the truth.

“He called you Lettie,” I continued. “Said Colette was too stuffy for a baby.”

“Stop.” Lettie’s voice was stronger now. Angry. “Stop talking. This isn’t... you’re wrong. You have to be wrong.”

But she was looking at Claire.

And Claire was looking back with an expression I recognized.

Guilt.

“Mom?” Lettie’s voice cracked on the word. “Tell them they’re wrong. Tell them⁠—”

Claire shook her head, eyes wild now. Desperate. “No.”

Hades’ arm tightened around Lettie. Protective. Possessive. Ready to tear through anyone who tried to hurt her, even if that person was standing three feet away holding lemonade.

I stepped forward, then stopped myself. Every instinct I had screamed to grab my daughter and never let go. Every bit of sense I had left told me not to become one more person taking choices from her.

“You were her best friend,” I said to Claire, my voice shaking with everything I wanted to do to her. With the violence I was barely holding back. With the need to make her hurt the way she’d made us hurt. “You were fucking family.”

Lettie’s breath caught.

Sharp.

Audible.

The sound of something inside her cracking.

“You were in my house,” I said. My voice was low now. Deadly. The kind of voice that came before men did things they couldn’t take back. “You held my little girl. You knew our routines. You knew when my wife took her to the park. You knew which door stuck. You knew where we kept the spare key.”

Claire’s face twisted. Not with guilt. With something uglier. Something defensive. “You don’t understand.”

A laugh tore out of me, ugly and broken. Acidic. The sound that came from a place where grief and rage had fucked each other raw for years. “I don’t understand?”