“You saw your father in her and it scared you.”
The room goes too damn quiet.
I could lie.
I don’t.
“Yes.”
Sophie’s expression softens. “That doesn’t make her him.”
“No.”
“And it doesn’t make her one of his mistakes.”
I look toward the stairs.
My father’s daughter is up there in a borrowed room, probably lying beside her kid because the boy woke scared. She came for him too late, and because he is dead, I’m what she found instead.
That feels like a punishment.
It also feels like a chance.
I don’t know what to do with either.
“He should’ve known,” I say.
Sophie comes closer. “Maybe he did. Maybe he didn’t.”
“If he knew, he left her out there.”
“Yes.”
No comfort. No excuse.
That’s Sophie’s gift too. She doesn’t make pretty lies out of ugly truths.
My throat tightens in a way I don’t appreciate.
“My father left a lot of people out there,” I say.
Sophie stands beside my chair and touches the back of my neck. Her fingers slide into my hair, gentle where the night is not.
“Then don’t be him.”
It’s simple.
It’s brutal.
It’s the kind of thing only Sophie can say to me and live.
Derby looks away.
Whiskey studies his hands.
Royal watches the stairs like he is seeing another woman, another sister, another ghost.
I close my eyes for one second.