Chloe finally turned. Her face remained calm, almost too calm, as though she had spent years learning how to keep every feeling folded neatly inside her chest.
“I wasn’t supposed to tell,” she said.
Her voice was small, but it did not tremble.
Denise knelt beside her. “Honey, who told you that?”
Chloe’s blue eyes moved from the social worker to the warden, then back to her father.
Gavin whispered, “It’s okay, peanut. You can say it now.”
Chloe looked at the officers standing by the door.
“Can they leave?”
One of the guards stiffened. “Warden—”
Mitchell raised a hand.
He was not a sentimental man. Sentiment was dangerous in his line of work. But something in the child’s face carried more weight than fear. It carried memory.
“Step outside,” Mitchell ordered.
The guards hesitated for only a moment before leaving the room. The door closed with a heavy click.
