“I swear on my life,” I whispered.
Now, alone in that motel, I repeated those words like a prayer.
A quiet knock sounded at the door. I rose slowly and approached, heart hammering against my ribs. Through the peephole I saw a woman wrapped in a faded shawl. Behind her stood a thin kid with sharp eyes and a hoodie pulled low.
I opened the door. The woman nodded curtly. “We need to go. I brought what you asked for.”
And then I saw her. My daughter stood half hidden behind the boy. Brielle. She looked nothing like the laughing child who once chased butterflies across our backyard in Chicago. Her cheeks were hollow. Her eyes, the color of storm clouds, were rimmed with shadows. She flinched when she saw me.
I dropped to my knees. “Brielle,” I murmured, forcing my voice to stay gentle. “It is me. It is Dad. I did not know. I swear to you. I would never have allowed this. Not if I knew.”
She stared at me, her gaze sharp like broken glass. “You really didn’t know. Are you telling the truth.”