Page 133 of What Goes Around

She opened her mouth, furious.

“I said stop,” he snapped.

Silence fell.

“I’m leaving,” I said. “Tonight.”

Brandon stepped toward me, voice breaking. “Ashley, please. We can talk about this. I am sorry. I failed you. But you have to know I love you.”

I looked at him for a long moment.

“I believe that you think you do,” I said quietly. “But love without protection is just a word people use to feel better about what they allowed.”

His face crumpled.

“I needed you to be my father,” I continued. “Not your guilt. Not your apologies. Not your excuses. And you chose comfort instead.”

Marissa stared at me with naked hatred, no mask left.

“You ungrateful little—”

I turned toward her.

“Say it,” I invited calmly.

Her lips trembled with rage, but she said nothing.

I turned away and went upstairs, where I opened the closet and pulled out the bags I’d packed days ago, hidden behind coats and boxes that never mattered. Documents. Clothes. The things that were actually mine.

No hesitation.

No second look.

When I walked back downstairs, Brandon was still standing where I’d left him, shoulders slumped, hands useless at his sides. Marissa was nowhere to be seen. Apple sat on the couch, silent now, watching me with wide eyes.

I didn’t acknowledge her.

Then the front door closed behind me with a soft, final click.

Part III

Chapter 41: The Bite Mark

A month later, I stepped into my birth city for the first time, a place that belonged to my past but not my memories. I had scheduled a meeting with the cold case detectives assigned to my mother’s murder at the Berkeley Police Department.

They were already waiting in a small interview room when I arrived.

The older detective stood first. Late fifties, gray at the temples, eyes that had seen too much.

“Detective Raymond Holt,” he said.

The younger man followed. “Detective Lucas Moreno.” Early forties, alert, serious, a legal pad already open in front of him.

They sat across from me. Between us lay a thick file, its edges softened from years of handling by people who had never finished the job. Photographs. Diagrams. Lab reports. Evidence logs.

“This is your mother’s case,” Detective Holt said.

I nodded. Seventeen years ago, my mother had been killed in her own home. I had been found unharmed in the nursery. That much I had known.