Przy kolacji siostra oblała mnie winem, krzycząc: „Masz czas do wschodu słońca, żeby się stąd wydostać!”. Rodzice ją dopingowali. Uśmiechnęłam się tylko, rzuciłam klucz na stół i odpowiedziałam: „TO MASZ 60 SEKUND…”.

“She’s got you there. We do need flower girls for next month.”

The wedding would be small—just chosen family and the survivors we’d helped. Lauren had sent a letter saying she understood why she couldn’t attend, but wished us well. She was cross-stitching a wedding sampler in her prison art class, apparently. Strange to imagine those hands that once held a wine bottle in violence now creating something beautiful.

As the evening wound down and families retreated to their apartments, I found myself back in the spot where I’d stood that night—wine dripping down my face, key in my hand. The person I’d been then felt like a ghost, someone who’d needed to die so who I was now could be born.

“Any regrets?” Marcus asked, finding me there.

I thought about it seriously.

“No,” I said. “Every cruel moment led to this. Every betrayal taught me what real loyalty looks like. Every lie showed me the value of truth. I wouldn’t change anything—because it all led to helping these families find what I searched for so desperately.”

Mrs. Patterson appeared with her usual perfect timing, carrying a plate of cookies.

“For the children’s lunchboxes tomorrow,” she said, then paused. “You know, dear, I always wondered when you’d finally fight back. Took longer than I expected—but my goodness, when you did, it was spectacular.”

“You knew what was happening all along,” I said. It wasn’t a question.