Part 2
I came back to the world in fragments.
A beep. A soft hiss. The smell of antiseptic. Light so bright it felt like it was burning my eyelids.
When I opened my eyes, the ceiling wasn’t floral wallpaper. It was white tile and fluorescent panels. My throat was dry. My shoulder was wrapped in thick gauze, and my right arm sat in a sling that made the entire side of my body feel like it belonged to someone else.
A nurse noticed me stirring and moved quickly, her shoes quiet on the polished floor. “Hey there,” she said, voice gentle. “You’re in the hospital. You’re safe.”
Safe.
The word didn’t fit in my mouth. It felt like a language I used to speak and had forgotten.
A moment later, a man in plain clothes stepped into view. Detective Alvarez, his badge clipped to his belt, hair combed back too neatly for a night shift. He pulled up a chair and sat like he’d done this a hundred times, but his eyes were sharp with the kind of attention that didn’t drift.
“Kenya Mack?” he asked.
I swallowed. “Yes.”
“I’m sorry we’re meeting like this.” His tone was calm, professional, not pitying. “Do you remember what happened?”
I stared at the blanket. The image of my father’s face, the laugh, Evelyn’s voice like honey and poison—everything tried to surge up at once.
“I remember,” I said.
Detective Alvarez nodded. “We got a call at 2:03 a.m. A neighbor reported screams. At 2:04, we got an automated emergency ping from your phone with your location. At 2:06, officers arrived. Paramedics followed.”
My stomach turned. “My phone… it worked?”
“It worked,” he confirmed. “Saved your life.”
The nurse adjusted my IV, then stepped out, leaving us in a bubble of quiet.
Alvarez leaned forward slightly. “Your stepbrother, Dylan Hart, is in custody. He’s claiming it was an accident. That you ‘fell into him.’”
A bitter laugh almost escaped me, but it turned into a cough that made my shoulder throb. “He kicked my door down.”
Alvarez didn’t flinch. “Your father and stepmother are saying you overreacted. They said you’re ‘dramatic.’ Those were their words.”
My fingers curled into the blanket. “That’s what she always says.”
Alvarez studied me for a moment. “I’m going to ask you something, and you can take your time. Has there been prior violence in that home?”
My mind tried to protect itself by retreating—like it always did—into small safe corners. But in the past, those corners were where Evelyn’s voice lived. I was tired of living with her inside me.
“Yes,” I said. “Not always… like this. But yes.”
The beeping machine beside me kept time while I told him about the little things. The slow, steady erosion. The way Evelyn could humiliate me in a room full of family and make it sound like concern. The way Dylan could ruin anything I cared about and call it a joke. The way Thomas would look away, always, like if he didn’t witness it, he didn’t have to act.
As I spoke, a memory surfaced so clear it was like I was there again.
Thanksgiving, four years ago.
I was fifteen, holding an acceptance letter from the University of Texas at Austin’s summer astrophysics program like it was proof I wasn’t worthless. The house had smelled like turkey and cinnamon and other people’s confidence. I’d slid the letter across the table to my father with hands that trembled.
For one breath, he’d smiled—an actual smile—and I’d felt my whole body light up.
Then Evelyn had taken the letter and read it aloud to the room, her voice bright and fake.
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