Page 4 — The Name She Couldn’t Say Out Loud
I took Emma’s hands. They were cold.
“Listen to me,” I said. “You’re not responsible for protecting me from the truth. I’m responsible for protecting you.”
She hesitated so long it felt like the room ran out of oxygen.
Then she whispered one word:
“Michael.”
My stomach dropped so hard it felt physical.
Not because I wanted it to be true—because I didn’t.
But because a part of me had been building the same conclusion and refusing to say it.
Emma’s voice shook as she explained in fragments—enough to understand the pattern without forcing her to relive every moment:
- Threats when I wasn’t home.
- Late-night visits to her room.
- Fear that kept her from sleeping.
- Warnings that if she told me, I would be the next target.
Then she said something that made my skin go cold:
