Chapter 8
I removed Camille from the mansion that night.
Not violently.
Not publicly.
Her engagement ring remained on my desk.
I did not return it yet.
Did not throw it away.
Objects can wait.
Lily could not.
She came home the next morning.
That was harder than finding her.
Her bedroom had been preserved.
Exactly.
Too exactly.
I had turned it into a shrine without calling it one.
Same blankets.
Same books.
Same stuffed rabbit.
Lily stopped at the doorway.
“Is this still mine?”
My chest tightened.
“Yes.”
She stepped inside slowly.
Touched the bed.
Then asked:
“Did you sleep here?”
I looked away.
Once.
On the anniversary.
I told her.
She nodded.
Then:
“Camille said you packed my things.”
I closed my eyes.
“No.”
Every room had become evidence against the lies she learned.
That was good.
Also painful.
Lily opened a drawer.
Found a cardigan too small now.
She laughed.
First laugh since I found her.
Small.
Beautiful.
Then she asked:
“Where’s Camille?”
I did not lie.
“Not here.”
“Because of me?”
“No.”
Immediate.
“Because of what she did.”
Lily sat on the bed.
“Will she hate me?”
That question.
Even now.
The child feared becoming responsible for an adult’s consequences.
“No.”
I sat beside her.
“And if she does, that belongs to her. Not you.”
She thought.
Then whispered:
“I missed you.”
I could not speak.
So I put my arm around her.
She leaned into me carefully.
Not like before.
Eighteen months had changed her.
Trust does not resume where it stopped.
May you like
It restarts.
That was my first real lesson after getting her back.
