“This is not the time.”

“No,” I snapped. “This is exactly the time.”

Rachel’s eyes moved between us.

She looked older than thirty-three, as if the missing years had been carved into her skin one night at a time.

A scar cut through her left eyebrow, another pale line marked her jaw.

She wrapped her arms around herself as if she still lived somewhere cold.

“I was sixteen,” she whispered. “He took me from the church parking lot after choir practice. He showed his badge and said there had been an accident, that Mom needed me downtown.”

Her breath hitched.

“I believed him.”

Noah had stopped on the stairs.

He heard everything.

I should have sent him away.

I couldn’t move.

Rachel kept talking, like stopping would mean never speaking again.

“He kept me in different places. Cabins, motels, basements. Always moving. Always saying Dad was helping him, that Dad knew where I was, that no one was coming.”

I turned slowly toward my father.

He didn’t deny it quickly enough.

My mother let out a sound of pure horror.

“Tell her she’s lying, Daniel.”

For a confused second I didn’t understand why she had used that name.

Then I did.

My father’s name was Thomas.