Page 175 of Sins of the Hidden

"Mom?" My voice was garbled through torn lips. "Mommy?" I called into silence, voice small, broken. Still hoping, even after everything, that she'd come back. That I hadn't been abandoned again.

I called for her like some stupid little kid. Like she hadn't just tried to kill me. Like she'd ever once come when I called. She was gone.

I prayed her footsteps would come back for me. That we could be a family again. That she would give me a second chance. That I wasn't a monster—I was her son.

What would I do without Mommy?

I stumbled out of the house that night into the pouring rain, holes in my lips as blood poured from them, my hands not letting go of my bat. The rain hit the open wounds on my face like a thousand knives. The rain washed the blood from my chin in thin pink streams, but couldn't clean the dark crimson still dripping from the bat. I stood there in the rain, blood running down my chin, bat clutched in my grip, throat working to form words that wouldn't come. His voice wasn't angry, but gentle—like Mrs. Wilson's.

I didn't trust gentle anymore.

Orphaned twice—once at birth, once by the only person who was supposed to love me.

Until a stranger's voice floated next to me.

"Hey kid. Where's your momma?"

"Prez found me that night," I said, reaching out to brush her tears away. The pad of my thumb caught a tear as it tracked down her cheek. "I've been free ever since."

A sound erupted from Oakley's throat, her body folding forward, a cry ripping from deep inside her—a sound of such pure anguish it seemed to tear her apart, leaving her gasping, clutching at the empty air like she could reach into the past and save me.

Oakley's eyes shimmered with unshed tears, the delicate skin underneath reddened and swollen. Her bottom lip quivered as she reached up to my face. The pad of her thumb stroked small circles against my cheekbone—one, two, three—the steadyrhythm, a lifeline I clung to as I drowned in memories. The subtle motion reminded me I wasn't back there—I was here with her.

We sat in silence heavy with things we couldn't say. Her tears eventually slowed, tracks drying on her flushed skin. Mine never came.

They hadn't in years.

"It wasn't your fault," Oakley finally choked out, the words splintering in the air between us. Fresh tears spilled over, scalding her cheeks. I watched the salt trail to the corners of her mouth where she'd bitten it raw.

I stared past her, my gaze fixed on some distant point beyond her shoulder. My breathing had gone shallow, rapid—the only external sign that I was anywhere else. The concept of blame, of fault, meant nothing to me. There was only what happened and what didn't.

"You see what survived." My fingers tightened around hers until I felt the small bones shift beneath her skin. "Not what was worth saving."

For a moment, Oakley went completely still, her breath catching in her throat. Then, like a dam breaking, she surged forward, arms wrapping around my neck. Her body collapsed against mine, the full weight of her grief pressing into my chest. I felt each sob as it tore through her.

Slowly, my arms encircled her, palms pressing flat against her back. We stayed locked together like this, her heartbeat thundering against my chest.

She pressed her forehead to mine, our breaths mingling in the air of our bakery. A tear slipped between her lips, salt mixing with the words she fought to form. "I can't erase what they did to you." Her voice cracked on the final word, the sound of something irreparably broken. She pressed her forehead harder against mine. "But you're not alone anymore."

The promise fell from her lips like blood drawn from a wound. Her fingers curled around the nape of my neck, tangling in my hair, holding me in place as if afraid I might disappear. A tremor ran through me, violent enough for her to feel.

The dim light of the room suddenly seemed too bright, every detail of her face thrown into sharp relief—the disarray of freckles across her nose, the flecks of gold in her jade irises. My hand rose, muscles twitching with effort, to touch her face. My fingertips ghosted over her tears, hovering just above her cheek as if afraid to make contact.

"You're the only one who can hurt me." There was something different in my voice—something that hadn't been there before.

A small sound escaped her, not quite a gasp, not quite a sob. Everything else had been taken from me—my body, my voice, my choices. Everything was forced upon me—except her. I had chosen her, stolen her, killed for her. She was the single thread of normalcy in a life woven from other people's cruelty. The only thing I'd ever wanted badly enough to choose for myself.

Escaping Mother was the only other choice I made for myself.

Oakley's eyes, wide and glistening, her hands moving from my nape to my face. Her fingertips hovered just centimeters from my lips, a question in the space between us. I gave the barest of nods, barely a movement at all. Her fingers finally made contact with my mouth, tracing the pattern of scars.

I fought the instinct to flinch away as she explored the evidence of cruelty etched into my flesh. Each small pucker and ridge where the needle had punctured, where thread had pulled tight. My chest rose and fell rapidly, lungs working against the weight of memory.

Her fingertip caught on a particularly deep scar at the corner of my mouth, and my body responded with a small tremor.Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks as she traced the path the thread had taken.

"H-How old were you?"

"Seven." Just a number. But it ruined everything. "The first time."

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