Page 50 of Property of Quake

“I-I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

I close my eyes, shutting him out and internalizing my pain. “That’s my home.”

“I know.”

“Children are supposed to be safe there.”

“I know it doesn’t feel like it, but they are. Or, at least, they will be.”

I open my eyes. “How?”

His expression hardens, and for a moment, I think his anger is directed at me, but then he brushes a tear from my cheek before cupping it. “People like that thrive in silence. But they can’t hide now because we won’t stay silent.”

The conviction in his voice seeps into my bones, quiets the raging storm of emotions. They aren’t gone, but they’re… less.

I take a deep breath, then another and another. We stand there, neither of us talking or moving, too afraid to shatter the peace that knowledge has the power to bring.

After what feels like forever, Quake moves to stand next to me, leaning back against the wall. I watch him, and his eyes darken with pain.

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” he snaps, looking down the hall at nothing in particular.

I sense that it’s my turn to offer comfort, so I instinctively move to stand in front of him and press my palm to his chest. “Talk to me.”

He tips his head back and lets out a humorless chuckle. “I just… I finally feel like I’m getting something right.”

“I have a hard time believing there are many times when you get things wrong.”

I expect him to shut down, to push me away and refuse to elaborate, but he surprises me.

“I did once, when I stayed silent.”

My throat constricts, and my heart skips a beat. Not because of the words so much as the anguish in them. He’s giving me a glimpse into the life behind the man, and somehow I know that it’s a precious gift.

"When I was sixteen," he begins, "my mom got pregnant. My parents were older. Wealthy. Obsessed with keeping up appearances." Bitterness seeps into every word. "My sister was born with significant disabilities." His jaw tightens. "And my father decided she wasn't part of the fucking perfect picture."

Horror washes through me. "What?"

"He forced my mother to give her up."

"He what?"

"Adoption. Legal. Clean. Done through all the proper channels."

"Oh, Quake."

"My mom fought him. She lost.”

For a long moment, neither of us speaks. The image is devastating and all too familiar: A mother, a baby, a family choosing convenience over love.

"What happened?"

"I spent years trying to find her." His eyes remain fixed on the wall behind me. "I was twenty-four when I finally managed it."

Hope creeps into my chest. Then he pushes me away, whirls around and punches the wall, and that hope immediately dies. Blood drips from his knuckles. The outburst should scare me, but it doesn’t. Quake would never hurt me. He might be violent, and he’s admitted to killing people, yet he’s gentle and loving and compassionate beyond comprehension.