CHAPTER 11•ODESSA POV•He leaves it wide open. Just like the night I left him. Twenty-five years ago. Gianna Rossi died in a car crash, what about my dad? So why did the people who raised me call themselves Mom and Dad? I was six. She was cutting apples. I was small for my age, knees scraped, hair in a messy braid she didn’t do. “Momma,” I asked, sweet. Soft. The way I thought daughters were supposed to ask. “Did I look like you when I was born? Did Daddy have my eyes?” The knife hit the wood. Thud. “You ask stupid questions for a stupid girl,” she said. “Eat.” I didn’t eat. I stared at her hands. They weren’t soft. They didn’t look like mine. I wondered if my real mother had hands that held me. If my father had eyes like mine. If they ever got to look at me at all. I learned not to ask. I don’t go to my room. I go after him. My feet are bare on the marble, cold, quiet. The silk on my skin is torn. Not blue. Just... torn. I need names. Dates. Who told them to lie to
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