I didn't say anything. I just listened.
"There isn't enough evidence to move forward," he added. "And with the prior medical diagnoses against you—even with it now being clear you're of sound mind—the fact that you were only ten and in a closet when it happened complicates things. It weakens your credibility in a courtroom."
Silence stretched between us.
"So that's it?" I asked quietly.
"No. They're still investigating the abuse and the crimes against you," he said. "We can pursue civil avenues for your mother; we can leave them with nothing. We can continue fighting—"
I didn't want to hear any more. I had been trying to stay positive, especially after last night. Everything else had worked out. I got the business, my money, and the house back. But what about my momma? What about what I suffered?
"Don't tell anyone," I cut in.
"Chloe—"
"Don't tell Killian. Don't tell Elara. Don't tell anyone yet." My voice didn't shake. "I need time to think."
Another pause.
"…Alright," he said finally. "But please don't—"
I didn't let him finish. I ended the call.
For a moment, I just sat there. Yesterday had been magical. Today—it felt like the attic again. Not physically, but in that way where the world narrows down to one thought and you can't step outside of it. The sun moved across the floor. The birds outside kept singing, because the world doesn't stop just because yours does.
Not enough evidence.
My mother's body had hit the ground. I had heard it. My father's hands had pushed her. I had watched it. And it wasn't enough? Because of the doctors he paid.
I would get no justice. Not for her. Probably not for me, either. Because I had played the role of the broken doll. Momma had been wrong. I wish I knew then what I know now. I would have done the opposite. I wouldn't have been quiet. I would have screamed every single day. I would have pushed Olivia down the stairs just to make them call an ambulance. I would have told everyone—the mailman, the gardener. When I climbed out that window that first time, I would have run and never looked back.
I wish I would have acted as crazy and stupid as they claimed I was and burned that fucking house to the ground.
I got out of bed. I sent for an Uber and grabbed the purse I'd bought while shopping the day before. I slid into some tennis shoes, still smelling and looking like last night’s party. I left the moment my ride arrived. I told the butler to tell Killian I'd be back.
I watched the New Orleans scenery blur past the window.
At the airport, I went straight to a kiosk and booked the first flight out with a prepaid debit card. Killian had given me his credit card to use until I got my own, but I knew better than to touch it. If I used his plastic, he’d have a notification on his phone before I even cleared security.
I had done my research; Killian couldn’t just call the airport and demand information on someone else’s travel plans. Without a badge or a confirmation number, I was just another name on a manifest, and the law said they had to keep it that way. For the first time in fourteen years, the rules were actually working in my favor. I didn’t need him coming for me before I did what I needed to do.
I sat at the gate. My phone was constantly ringing. Killian, then Elara, then Grandpa. I turned it off. The intercom crackled to life about thirty minutes later.
"Final boarding call for Flight 1128 to Tampa, Florida. All ticketed passengers, please proceed to Gate B12."
I stood up. I didn't look back. I dropped my phone into a trash can as I walked toward the jet bridge. The law wasn't going to give me justice. So, I was going back to get it myself.
Chapter 43: Killian
"Mr. Hart, I understand your concern, but I'm bound by attorney-client privilege. I can't discuss—"
"I don't give a damn about your privilege," I growled. My free hand curled into a fist at my side. "She's missing. She's not answering her phone. She left without telling anyone where she was going. If you know something and you withhold it, and something happens to her—"
"I can't," the lawyer said again. I heard the crack in his voice. The guilt. "I'm sorry. I truly am. But I can't." He paused, then said, “She told me not to tell you. I can tell you that.” It was pointed; it meant something.
The line went dead before I could ask anything else, though I knew he wouldn’t have talked. I threw the phone onto the leather desk. It skidded across the surface and hit the brass lamp with a crack that made Julian flinch.
"Damn it."