Page 17 of Truck Hard

The accusation in her voice stings. “I didn’t. But I did let her go. Thought I was doing the right thing.”

“The right thing?” She sets a perfect slice of pie in front of me, steam still rising from the golden crust. “Like pushin’ Hannah away was the right thing? Like watchin’ that monster hurt her was the right thing?”

“I didn’t know—”

“No.” Her voice softens slightly. “You didn’t. But plenty of us suspected. Me included.” She adds a scoop of vanilla ice cream to my plate, watching it melt into the warm pie. “But now you know. Now you have a chance to make it right.”

“How?” The word comes out more desperate than I intended. “How do I even begin to fix this?”

She settles into the chair next to me, her own slice of pie untouched. “You start by being honest. With Hannah. With Cameron. With yourself.”

“And if they hate me?”

“Then you live with that.” She takes my hand, her grip still strong despite her age. “But at least you’ll know you tried. That you didn’t hide like a coward when they needed you most.”

From the living room, the sound of the baseball game drifts in, punctuated by the commentator’s excited voice. Dad cheers at something—a home run maybe, or a great catch. Such a normal moment, yet everything feels different now. Heavier. More real.

“I’m scared, Grams.” The admission feels like ripping off a Band-Aid. “What if I mess this up worse than it already is?”

She squeezes my hand once before letting go. “Then you pick yourself up and try again. That’s what family does.”

Family.The word echoes in my head as I take my first bite of pie. It tastes like childhood, like comfort, like everything good and pure I’ve ever known. Like memories of Hannah in this very kitchen, flour on her cheek and laughter in her eyes.

Like possibilities I thought I’d lost forever.

“Eat your pie.” Grams picks up her fork at last. “It’s best when it’s still warm.”

I nod, letting the familiar taste of apple and cinnamon ground me. Outside, night is falling, casting long shadows across the kitchen floor. In a broken-down house just down the road, my son is probably getting ready for bed. Maybe reading a book, or playing video games, or doing whatever twelve-year-old boys do these days.

My son.

The words still feel strange, but right. Like a truth I’ve always known but been afraid to acknowledge.

“You’re thinkin’ too hard.” Grams nudges my arm. “Eat. The answers will come when they’re ready.”

So I eat, letting the warmth of home and family wash over me.

Letting myself believe, just for a moment, that maybe it’s not too late to fix what I broke all those years ago.

Chapter 4

Crossroads

Hannah

Breathe in. Breathe out.

The mantra repeats in my head as I stand before the imposing oak doors of my lawyer’s office building. My reflection stares back at me from the polished brass handle—a pale face framed by disheveled brown hair that I attempted to tame this morning. Dark circles rim my eyes, a testament to another sleepless night spent jumping at every creak and shadow in my parents’ old house.

You can do this. You have to do this. For Cam.

My hand trembles as I reach for the door. The cool metal grounds me, reminds me that this is real. Not another nightmare where Charlie’s hands wrap around my throat, where his whispered threats become reality. This is me, taking back control of my life. One terrifying step at a time.

The lobby’s artificial lighting casts harsh shadows across the marble floor. My footsteps echo too loudly in the empty space, each click of my sensible shoes a thunderclap in the silence. The secretary—Linda, I remember from my previous visits—offers a sympathetic smile as I approach her desk.

“Mrs. Fisher.” Her voice is gentle, careful. Like she’s afraid speaking too loudly might shatter me. “Mr. Reynolds is expecting you. Go right in.”

Mrs. Fisher.The name sits like acid on my tongue. Soon, I won’t have to answer to it anymore. Soon, I’ll be Hannah Baumann again.

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