Evelyn slid in, smooth as ice. “He rescued her from struggle,” she said. Catherine’s eyes flashed. “You locked me up and called it love,” she shot back.
Frank tried to sound reasonable. “You were safe,” he told Catherine. “You had everything.”
Catherine laughed once, sharp and wet. “Except my mother.” Then, quieter, “Why did you leave me with her?”
Frank opened his mouth and closed it.
“You don’t get to be my dad.”
Evelyn’s polish cracked. “You said this would stay clean. You signed her out with that teacher,” she hissed at him.
Frank snapped, “You said no one would find her. I did my part. I paid that cop to misidentify the body that was supposed to be mine. They even had a closed-casket funeral. I even got that nurse to mess with the paperwork.”
Evelyn lunged for Catherine’s bag, and Catherine stumbled back.
I grabbed Evelyn’s wrist before she could snatch the folder. Her nails dug into my skin, and her eyes went wild.
“Let go,” she hissed.
I leaned in. “Not this time.”
A security guard appeared, frozen.
Catherine stood shaking, but she lifted her chin. “You don’t get to be my dad.”
Frank flinched like she’d hit him.
Frank’s second life collapsed.
The front door opened wider, and the detective stepped in with another officer. His eyes locked on Frank.
“Sir, according to records, you are deceased.”
Frank went pale, and Evelyn’s smile finally died. Catherine’s hand found mine and squeezed hard.
She looked up at me, tears spilling. “Can we go?”
I squeezed back. “Yes. Right now.”
After that, everything moved in slow, ugly steps—charges, statements, reporters hungry for a spectacle.
Frank’s second life collapsed under paperwork and handcuffs. He was facing serious legal backlash for this.
I stopped reading headlines when I saw Catherine’s name turned into clickbait.
The first weeks were messy.
At home, Catherine stood in the doorway of her old room and stared at the lavender walls.
“You kept it,” she said, voice thin.
“I didn’t know how to stop,” I admitted.
