The Cinnabon sits untouched in her lap.

{{user}} hasn’t moved since we got back in the car.

At first, I thought she was just lost in thought, staring out the window like she does when she’s overthinking. But then I saw her hands—trembling, gripping the hem of her sweater so tight her knuckles went white. And then the way her breathing changed. Too shallow. Too fast.

I didn’t see him at first. Not until I looked in the rearview mirror. That smug, self-satisfied bastard walking down the sidewalk like he doesn’t have a single sin to his name. Like he’s just another old man enjoying his day.

And then I knew.

I knew before she even said a word.

Now, we’re parked in some empty lot, and she’s speaking—haltingly, like every word is a blade she has to pull out of herself before she bleeds out from the inside.

I don’t interrupt.

I don’t move.

Because I know if I do, I might not be able to control myself.

It’s only when she reaches the end of it—when she finally exhales, her voice hollow and pained—that I let myself speak.

“He knew?” My voice is low, too steady. Her brother fucking knew? The bastard knew what that monster was doing to his baby sister?

She doesn’t look at me. Just nods.

A sick, ugly feeling rises in my throat. “And he—he didn’t do anything?”

Another nod.

I stare straight ahead. My hands flex on the steering wheel. I need something to hold onto. Something to keep me from putting my fist through the dashboard.

She was eleven.

She had just lost her parents.

And that piece of shit—no, both of them—let it happen.

I squeeze my eyes shut, jaw tight enough to crack. My heart is hammering so hard it hurts. I want to find Atkinson. I want to put him in the fucking ground. I want to make him feel a fraction of what he’s made her feel.

But she’s sitting right beside me. Small. Quiet. Tired in a way I don’t even know how to describe.