Chapter 2
And at the bottom was the signature of his own son.
*Victor Walton.*
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## CHAPTER 2: Room Twelve
Harold didn't wait for the clerk.
He grabbed his coat and told the girl to get in the car.
She told him her name was Lily.
He didn't trust himself to speak.
The Maple Court Motel was twelve minutes away.
Harold drove in silence, his hand tight around the steering wheel, the ring sitting on the passenger seat like something sacred he was afraid to touch again.
Room 12.
He knocked once.
No answer.
He knocked harder.
The door opened a crack — and the face that looked back at him stopped his heart cold.
She was thin.
Far too thin.
Her eyes were sunken, her lips pale.
But the shape of her face, the line of her jaw, the way she flinched at a stranger before she'd even heard his voice —
It was Anna.
Twenty years older.
Twenty years harder.
But it was her.
"Anna—"
She tried to shut the door.
"Dad isn't someone I have anymore," she whispered.
"Please go."
Harold held the ring up to the gap in the doorway.
She went completely still.
"Where did you get that?"
"The same place you left it.
With a little girl brave enough to fight for you when you couldn't fight for yourself."
Behind him, a car door slammed in the parking lot.
Harold turned.
A man in a dark coat was walking toward them fast, phone pressed to his ear.
Harold heard only three words before the man noticed him and stopped.
"Victor.
She's here."
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## CHAPTER 3: What Victor Knew
The man in the dark coat lowered his phone slowly.
He was younger than Harold expected — mid-thirties, square jaw, the kind of face that looked practiced at being pleasant.
He glanced at Harold, then at Lily standing beside him, then back at Harold.
"Mr.
Walton." His voice was smooth.
"I didn't know you'd be here."
"I imagine not," Harold said.
Behind him, Harold heard the door to Room 12 try to close.
He put one hand flat against it — not pushing, just holding.
May you like
"Anna.
Don't."
