“For your mind.”

My skin went cold.

I had believed it was what grief did to a person. That grief blurred the edges of your days, made your body feel too heavy to carry. Now, sitting on that study floor with my daughter half-hidden in a dirty blanket, I could suddenly see another possibility.

It wasn’t just sorrow.

Someone had been helping it along.

“They don’t just want the company,” Chloe said softly, as if reading my thoughts. “They want you out of the way. Completely.”

The Decision Not to Run

“Okay,” I said finally, my voice low, almost calm. “We’re leaving. We’ll go to the police. We’ll show them you’re alive. We’ll tell them what you heard.”

Chloe shook her head so fast it made her dizzy.

“They’ve already laid the groundwork,” she said. “I heard them talk about it. They’ve been meeting with lawyers, with doctors. They’ve collected papers that say you’re not thinking clearly. They’ve told everyone you refuse help, that you see me ‘everywhere’—that you’re having visions because you can’t accept what happened.”

She drew her knees up to her chest, her small body folding in on itself.