Noah spoke of shelters and foster homes. Of being passed around. Of a couple outside Cleveland—Derek and Paula Whitman—who lost their foster license after “incidents.” Noah said they called him cursed. Said bad things followed him.
The words settled heavily in Nathaniel’s chest.
Because he remembered holding a little girl who once whispered through tears that monsters followed her too.
When Nathaniel asked again about the necklace, Noah touched it without thinking, fingers brushing the emerald.
“It’s the only thing that never changed,” he said quietly. “When everything else did.”
Nathaniel pulled out his phone.
His hands shook as he showed Noah a photo he had carried for years—the last picture ever taken of Isabella. Summer sunlight. A carefree smile. The star pendant resting against her chest.
The reaction was immediate.
Noah’s face drained of color. He shoved the phone away and stood so abruptly the booth rattled.
“I don’t want to see that,” he said, panic slicing through his voice. “I have to go.”
“Please,” Nathaniel said, standing too. “I just want to help.”
At the door, Noah paused.
Without turning around, he whispered, “People who try to help me get hurt.”