“If we walk into a station right now,” she whispered, “they’ll say I’m someone pretending to be your daughter. They’ll say you’re confused. They’ll say you’re not well.”
I could see it, suddenly, as clearly as if it were already happening. Vanessa, eyes full of tears, telling a detective that she knew this day might come, that grief could make a person see what they wanted to see. Colby, solid and calm, explaining that I had been mixing my medications, that my judgment had been “off” for months.
“They’ve been guiding the story from the beginning,” I murmured.
Chloe nodded.
“So we don’t play into their story,” I said slowly. “We don’t walk into it. We change it.”
Chloe looked up, confused.
“They want a tale about a man who lost everything and slipped away,” I said. “They want people to believe I couldn’t handle my pain. They expect me to keep drifting until I collapse in front of everyone, and they can say, ‘We did everything we could. It was just too much for him.’”
I looked at my shaking hand, still clutching the locket.
“Fine,” I said. “If they want a story, we’ll give them one. Just not the one they wrote.”