Chapter 3

ANDREA AGE 13

"Your progress is phenomenal," Hailey, my therapist, says.

I want to believe her. I want to feel like I've actually been moving forward. But I don't. I still can't think about a basement without my chest seizing up. How is that progress?

I hold her gaze, searching for the right words. Saying the wrong thing feels dangerous, even now. Even here.

"You don't agree?" she asks. It sounds less like a question and more like an observation. She's good at that.

I weigh honesty against the easier option. "I want to agree. I just can't figure out why you'd think that."

Honesty wins. She'd see through a lie anyway. This woman has some kind of gift. She always seems to know.

"Let's talk about why you feel that way," she says, setting her pen down and giving me her full attention. I hate when she does that. It feels like she's looking straight through me.

"Around the family, I'm okay. I feel safe with them. But when I'm alone, dark thoughts creep in. The voice in my head starts sounding like theirs. And I start believing them... that I really am evil." I pause to breathe. I look away from her and pull at my sleeves. Words are hard sometimes. "In those moments, I want to feel pain. Because pain from the outside used to quiet the noise. And maybe that's why they called me evil. A good person wouldn't want that."

My voice cracks on the last part. A tear escapes before I can stop it.

"Those beliefs were put inside you by people who wanted control over you," Hailey says steadily. "That's the evil in this story, not you, and not what you're feeling now. What happened to you doesn't make you bad. The effects of it don't either. Your story astounds me, Andrea. And I know your family feels the same way."

I nod and wipe my face. I know she's right. That doesn't stop my head from arguing otherwise.

"I just want to be better," I whisper. "I don't want to feel this way anymore."

"Healing is a journey. It's difficult, it requires patience, and it looks different for everyone." She takes a small breath. "What I mean by that is, progress is personal. There's no universal version of it. And what I can tell you is that you are progressing at levels I rarely see in someone your age. You can recognize patterns in your own behavior and trace them back to their roots. That's not a small thing."

She has a way of making words land softly. "Thank you," I say, sending her a small smile. I'm practicing accepting compliments. She says it matters, letting people acknowledge your hard work.

"Now, the placement test," she says, shifting gears. "Did you take it Friday?"

Oh. Right. The test. It actually went well. Killian said I picked things up faster than he expected. I spent a whole year preparing for it.

"Yeah. I scored high. Dorathy said they're placing me in seventh grade starting in August, which is two years behind where I'd be by age. But I'm okay with that. I'm just happy I got as close as I did." I mean it. I worked hard, and I think it shows.

I'll be fourteen when school starts, two months from now. I'd love to walk the halls with kids my own age, but I'm taking this win.

"That's wonderful." Hailey grins. "See? Progress."

I smile back. She's right. Progress is progress, no matter the size of the steps. She told me that months ago and it didn't land then. It does now.

She glances at the clock. "Looks like we're out of time." She walks me through the lobby where Dorathy is already waiting. I've told her she doesn't have to sit here for a full hour, but she insists, saying there's nowhere she'd rather be. I still don't entirely believe that, but I've stopped arguing.

"See you next week!" Hailey waves us out, and we head to the car.

"How'd it go?" Dorathy asks as we pull out of the lot. Her car still intimidates me. White leather seats, and she lets me eat in here sometimes. That still amazes me.

"Really good," I say. "I learned something today."

She catches my eye in the rearview mirror, curious. "Oh yeah? What's that?"

I look out the window. A couple walks along the sidewalk with two kids, a little girl trying to pull free of her mother's hand, the father behind them laughing and pushing a stroller. I watch them and wait for the familiar sting of envy.

It doesn't come.

Because I have what those kids have. A family that loves me.

"I'm getting better," I say quietly, resting my head against the glass. It feels good to say it. Even better that it's true.

"That's my girl," Dorathy says warmly from the front seat.

The rest of the drive home is quiet. I don't usually feel like talking after sessions. I like sitting with my thoughts, letting things settle.

I nap when we get back and wake up to the smell of spaghetti. My favorite. It took a while to get used to having people handle things around the house, a cook, a housekeeper, a gardener, a driver, even security. I asked Cade once, over ice cream, what exactly the security was for. He said we had important things worth protecting. When I asked what things, he said us kids. I think he was being vague on purpose, but I didn't push. If I needed to know more, I figured he'd tell me.

I wash my hands and dart out of the bathroom, down the hall toward the stairs, and run straight into something solid.

"Oomph." My socks skid on the floor. Two hands catch me before I go down.

"Thank you—" I look up. Logan. He releases me and steps back.

"Watch where you're going. And stop running," he says flatly.

Logan is always like this with me. Short, distant, unbothered. I've tried being kind to him, and it doesn't seem to make a dent.

"It was an accident," I say, crossing my arms and aiming my best pout at him. "You're always mean to me."

He makes a sound, half scoff, half laugh. "I'm not mean. I just don't baby you the way everyone else in this house does."

He mutters something about me getting spoiled. And before I can think it through, the words are already out.

"Why are you even here? You don't live here anymore."

I clap a hand over my mouth. Oh no.

Logan's eyes narrow. "I don't have to live here for it to still be my house. It was mine long before it was yours."

That stings. I shove it down and switch tactics, grinning up at him. "So you admit it's my house too."

Mental high five. Victory.

He rolls his eyes and turns away, muttering something I can't quite catch.

I head downstairs to the kitchen. Marcus, our cook, is already plating when I walk in. I usually try to watch him cook whenever I can, he's the best at explaining things. But I'm too late today.

"Missed it again," I say, and Marcus laughs.

"There will be plenty more lessons," he says, giving my head a gentle pat. He steers me toward the hallway. "Go get seated, Mrs. Storm was looking for you in the dining room."

When I get there, Logan and Austin are already at the table, talking quietly. Their expressions are serious. I hesitate in the doorway, then decide curiosity wins.

I walk in and sit across from them. Austin notices me first and nudges Logan.

"What are you guys talking about?" I ask, resting my chin in my hand.

Logan shifts his gaze from Austin to me. Unreadable as always. This man has maybe three expressions: vaguely annoyed, visibly bored, and slightly more annoyed than before.

"Nothing that concerns you," he says, pulling out his phone and typing something quickly.

I glance at Austin and smile. "Is he always like this?"

Austin's lips twitch, the closest thing to a smile he usually gives. He leans back in his chair. "Always," he says, quietly, like he's saying much more than that. Even one word from him feels like something.

Austin's phone buzzes. He reads the notification and flicks a glance at Logan, who still doesn't look up. I'm thirteen, not oblivious. They're texting each other.

"I wish I had a phone," I say, mostly to myself. "Who do you think would say yes — Dorathy or Cade?"

Logan looks up. "What do you need a phone for?"

"Well." I tap my fingers on the table, pretending to think it over. "I could text you guys. I get lonely when everyone's out. And I could play games — we could all play together."

Austin watches me with mild amusement. Logan crosses his arms. "Games make people impulsive. And you're too young to be texting people."

I notice he's wearing long sleeves again. He always does. I've never seen him in anything short-sleeved. I wonder about it but know better than to ask. I just huff and lean back. "I don't think I'm too young."

"Who's too young?" Killian's voice carries in as he enters, Reid and Drew not far behind.

"Drea thinks she needs a phone," Logan says, with a trace of something almost like amusement. "She wants to text people and play games."

Killian raises an eyebrow as he takes his seat. Drew drops into the chair on my right, Reid on my left, boxing me in like they always do.

"Everyone else has one," I say, going for reasonable. "And when I start school, what if a boy likes me and wants a way to reach me?"

Silence.

Every set of eyes in the room turns to me at once. My face goes hot.

"What? Why are you all looking at me like that?"

Logan actually laughs. A real one. Short, but genuine. I stare at him, genuinely stunned — I didn't know his face could do that. Austin's grey eyes fill with quiet amusement. Reid and Drew exchange a look over my head, grinning. Killian looks personally offended.

"Yeah, you're definitely not getting a phone now," Logan says.

I turn to Killian, hoping for backup. He shakes his head. "You're not old enough for boys, Drea. Or a phone."

Before I can argue, Dorathy and Cade come in and take their seats at opposite ends of the table.

"What's this about boys and phones?" Dorathy asks.

I glance at her, briefly distracted — her pearl necklace catches the light. She told me once that Cade gave it to her on their first anniversary. It's the kind of love I want someday.

"Drea wants a phone so she can give her number to boys at school," Reid says, smirking in Cade's direction.

"That is not what I said!" I glare at him. "I just want one because everyone else has one."

Dorathy and Cade exchange one of their looks — the kind that means the conversation already happened without me.

"We'll get you a phone, little love," Dorathy says, calm and kind. "We need a way to reach you when we travel, and it'll be useful once school starts."

"As for boys," Cade adds, his expression comically serious, "no dating until you're eighty-five."

"Who's going to want to date me when I'm ancient," I mutter, shooting him a pleading look. He doesn't move an inch.

"Non-negotiable, I'm afraid."

Logan and Austin both nod. Drew is too busy laughing to weigh in. I grumble, but my mood lifts the moment plates start appearing in front of us. My stomach growls loud enough that Reid glances over.

Conversation fills the room again. Dorathy laughs at something Cade says. The boys argue over weekend plans. I listen and look around at all of them and realize I don't feel like a guest at someone else's table anymore.

I feel like I belong here.

"Excited about school, Andrea?" Cade asks, leaning back in his chair. "Two months now."

I think about it honestly. I am excited. I'm ready to be around kids my own age, to build something of my own outside these walls. But then there's the other thing.

My scar.

Here, no one looks at it. Everyone acts like it's just part of me, which I suppose it is. But out there, people will notice. They'll stare. They'll ask questions I don't have clean answers for.

"I think so," I say, and my hand moves to my neck without thinking. I trace the raised skin with my fingertips. "I just don't want people to see it and make assumptions. Judge me before they even know me."

The table goes quiet.

"Hey," Cade says gently. I look up. His eyes are steady and kind. "If anyone says anything to you about that scar, you tell me or Dorathy and we'll handle it. Don't ever be ashamed of surviving, sweetheart. Hold your head up. Be proud. That's the thing that makes it impossible for anyone to tear you down."

I nod slowly, his words settling warm and heavy over my worry. He's been everything I could have wanted in a father figure. Moments like this make me want to call him Dad. Dorathy too. But I'm not ready yet.

Dinner wraps up and everyone drifts away. I'm heading upstairs when a hand catches my arm.

"If anyone gives you trouble about your scar at school," Logan says, standing over me with a dead-serious expression, "you f*cking come to me."

I blink at him. "You can't do anything, Logan. You're too old to fight a kid."

His eyes narrow slightly. "I'm twenty-one. That's not f*cking old. And I didn't say I'd fight them, I'd get Drew to do it."

A laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it.

"Swear jar," I say, pulling myself together. "You said a bad word. Twice, actually."

He rolls his eyes. "Swear jar."

"Three."

He shakes his head, muttering. Then the humor leaves his face and he looks at me directly. "I mean it, Andrea. Come find me."

He walks away before I can respond.

I stand there for a second, a little stunned.

Is this just how he shows he cares? I think it might be. And honestly, I'll take it.

Later, clean from my shower and tucked under my blankets, I glance at the nightstand. The swear jar sits there with three crisp hundred-dollar bills folded inside.

A smile spreads slowly across my face.

He's warming up to me. I'm sure of it.