“Did you ever confirm the story?” Lucas asked.
No.
“Have you noticed Ava only freezes when Rachel’s around? That she wears the glasses only when Rachel’s home?”
Memories flooded in—Ava stiffening, flinching from Rachel’s touch, medications Michael never examined closely.
“She’s afraid,” Lucas said. “And Rachel knows more about that accident than she admits.”
Michael knelt before his daughter.
“If there’s anything you want to tell me, I’ll protect you.”
Ava almost spoke—then withdrew, as if pulled back by an invisible leash.
“She’s protecting you,” Lucas said gently.
That night, Michael watched Rachel closely. Her smile was perfect, her voice sweet—but when she touched Ava, his daughter flinched.
“I’ll take care of her,” Rachel said.
“No,” Michael replied. “I will.”
Rachel’s smile tightened, but she agreed.
In Ava’s room, Michael saw it clearly for the first time—not a bedroom, but a controlled space. Bottles. Equipment. Silence.
“Are you hiding something?” he asked.
After a long moment, Ava nodded.
“Is it Rachel?”
Another nod.