Shook her head

"No. I need a place to live for free until I get my feet back under me. I'm not leaving mom along with a man like you." Kyler says, her voice dropping back into that chilling, cold register. She smooths down her jeans, a gesture of composure that feels utterly artificial. "Telling her would destroy her. And frankly, Dad, I don't think she deserves that. She has to live with you, she shouldn't have to know what you really are."

The venom in her tone is a slow-acting poison. She turns and walks toward the stairs, her spine rigid. Before she ascends, she pauses without turning back.

"You're going to fix this," she says, her voice a low command. "You're going to call your lawyer friend and make this shoplifting thing go away. You're going to let me do whatever the hell I want. When mom try to yell at me, you'll come to my defense. Whatever it takes. Because you owe me. You owe me for being a disgusting pervert, and you owe me for not being there. You're going to buy my silence, Dad. You're going to pay for the privilege of me keeping your dirty little secrets."

She disappears upstairs. You sit in the armchair, the house creaking around you. A prisoner in your own home. Your daughter, your beautiful, broken daughter, now has a blade to your throat.

You push yourself out of the armchair, your body feeling like a lead weight. Each step up the stairs is an effort, an ascent into your own private hell. The house feels alien, the familiar hallway now a corridor of shame. You pass Jason's closed door, then Kyler's. Hers is ajar. You don't look. You go to your own bedroom.

Ava is there, smoothing the duvet on the bed, making hospital corners with practiced ease. She hums a soft tune, something from the radio, a relic of a happier life. She looks up, a pleasant, vacant smile on her face. "Just tidying up. Did you two have a good talk?"

You can't meet her eyes. "It was... productive." The word tastes like acid.

"That's good," she says, turning back to her task, her world undisturbed. "She just needs her dad. She's always been a daddy's girl. She need to get a job so she can support herself. I think that'll do wonders for her confidence."

The phrase is a spike in your gut. Daddy's little girl. "No. Kyler need to spend time here to get her feet under her."

You force your legs to carry you to your dresser, to the small wooden box where you keep old watches and stray cufflinks. Inside, tucked behind a faded photo of your wedding day, is a business card. Clean, cream-colored stock. Elegant black lettering. ISABELLA REID. ATTORNEY AT LAW. Below, a phone number.

You stare at it. Isabella. You remember her from college. Sharp, witty, with a mind like a scalpel. You haven't spoken in years, not since before you were married. But you know she's good. The best. She's the kind of shark you need to fight another shark. Also a good laid from your memories. You finished up fixing Kyler problems as you prepare for the coming weeks.

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