Mom, why do people help us?
Sarah thought about the question.
Sometimes because they care.
Even if they don't know us?
Sometimes.
Lily looked toward the window.
Then maybe we should know them.
Sarah put an arm around her daughter.
Maybe we should.
Outside, a motorcycle engine started somewhere in the distance.
Sarah listened until the sound faded.
For the first time in weeks, she didn't feel entirely alone.
But beneath that small, unfamiliar comfort, another feeling was growing.
Fear.
Because Frank Delaney had recognized her.
He had known her mother's name.
And he had looked at her as though she possessed something he desperately wanted to keep hidden.
Rebecca Hale had never been good at following instructions.
At seventeen, she had climbed out of her bedroom window to attend a concert her father had forbidden her to attend.
At eighteen, she had taken a summer job at a diner because she wanted to learn how ordinary people lived.
At nineteen, she had fallen in love with a mechanic who had grease beneath his fingernails and more kindness in his heart than anyone she had ever known.
Her father had considered every one of those decisions a personal insult.
David Hale believed that wealth was a responsibility and that family reputation was a form of currency. He had inherited a substantial property portfolio from his own father and spent years expanding it, cultivating friendships with politicians and businessmen, and teaching his daughter that the world rewarded those who knew their place.
Rebecca had never believed in places.
She believed in people.
She believed a man's character mattered more than his bank account, that a promise mattered more than a family name, and that love should never be treated as a transaction.
Jack Sullivan had understood her.
At least, she had believed he did.
When he left for Montana, she had stood beneath the oak tree and watched his truck disappear down Willow Street.
He had kissed her forehead before climbing into the driver's seat.
Six months, he had promised. "Maybe less."
You always say that.
This time, I mean it.
She had laughed, though tears were already gathering in her eyes.
Then come back before I have to name the dog without you.
Theodore.
You don't get to choose.
I've already chosen.
She had tapped her thumb against her middle finger.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Jack had caught her hand and kissed her knuckles.
Stop worrying.
I'll stop when you come home.
He had smiled.
Then he had left.
For three weeks, his letters arrived regularly.
He wrote about the garage where his uncle worked, the mountain roads, the bitter cold, and the customers who believed mechanics should work miracles for the price of a cup of coffee.
Rebecca wrote about the garden, her father's endless complaints, and the possibility of renting a small house after they married.
Then she discovered she was pregnant.
She was frightened, but the fear was mixed with a joy so fierce that she spent an entire afternoon smiling at nothing.
She wrote to Jack that night.
She told him about the baby, about the name she had begun to consider, and about the way she could already imagine a small hand wrapped around his finger.
His answer never came.
Instead, her father summoned her to his study.
You're going to end this, David Hale said.
Rebecca stared at him.
End what?
The pregnancy.
No.
You don't understand what you're doing.
I understand perfectly.
You are nineteen years old.
And I'm having a child.
With a man who cannot provide for you.
Jack will provide.
David laughed bitterly.
With what? His toolbox?
Rebecca's face hardened.
With whatever he has.
You will not ruin your life for a mechanic.
My life is not yours to arrange.
He rose from his chair.
Everything you have comes from this family.
Then perhaps you should have taught me to be grateful instead of obedient.
Her father slapped the desk with his palm.
That boy has filled your head with nonsense.
Jack loves me.
Love doesn't pay bills.
Neither does money buy a conscience.
David's face darkened.
For a moment, Rebecca thought he might strike her.
Instead, he pointed toward the door.
You will remain in this house until you understand what is at stake.
She left the room before he could say anything else.
That night, she packed a small suitcase.
She planned to leave before sunrise, take the bus to Montana, and find Jack herself.
She had almost reached the back door when Frank Delaney stepped into the hallway.
He was twenty-seven, handsome in a polished way, and already working closely with her father on the family's property business.
Going somewhere? he asked.
Rebecca froze.
Move.
Frank looked at the suitcase.
Your father is worried about you.
Then he can learn to mind his own business.
Frank sighed.
You always were dramatic.
And you always were a coward.
His expression hardened.
Be careful, Rebecca.
She stepped toward him.
Or what?
Frank moved aside.
She thought she had won.
She didn't understand that he had already decided to stop her.
The next morning, Rebecca discovered that her bank account had been frozen.
Her bus ticket had disappeared.
Her father's driver had been instructed not to take her anywhere without permission.
And Jack's letters, the ones she had carefully saved in a small wooden box, were gone.
She confronted her father again.
Give me my letters.
David did not look up from his newspaper.
I don't know what you're talking about.
Jack's letters.
You need to forget that boy.
Rebecca stood in the doorway, trembling with rage.
You have no right.
I have every right to protect my family.
From what? Happiness?
He folded the newspaper.
From humiliation.
She stared at him.
Then she understood.
Her father did not care whether she was happy.
He cared what people would say.
He cared whether his friends would whisper behind his back, whether the family name would be associated with scandal, whether his daughter would become an embarrassment.