“What happened then is done. You’ve served your time. Isn’t that enough? Why dig it up?”
I stared at him, stunned.
Why bother pursuing it?
My daughter was dead. I’d been imprisoned for a crime I didn’t commit. And now, I wasn’t even allowed to ask why.
The room tilted. My vision blurred. I swayed.
“Clara!” His voice cut through the fog.
He rushed forward. For a second, I thought he might care. But then his phone rang.
“Hello?” His voice changed instantly. “Lella’s crying? I’ll be right there.”
That tone dragged me back to when Isla was alive. Damian had always been strict with her. Too strict. He loved her, yes, but he never showed it the way a father should. “Girls should be strong. Don’t cry,” he’d always say.
Even when Isla scraped her knees or hit her head, she bit back tears to earn his praise.
And now, Chiara’s daughter only had to cry once, and he came running.
I gripped the armrest to stay upright, refusing to collapse in front of him.
“I have to go,” he said softly. “Something urgent came up. Rest here. Don’t overthink. Call me if you need anything.”
The door clicked shut, and silence swallowed the house.