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“Everything I did… it was to protect this family.” Dad looks old, tired. “I didn’t know you saw. I never knew you were there that night until Lydia died. If I had…”
“If you had what?” I demand. “Would you have told me the truth? Or would you have found another way to keep me quiet?”
“Naomi,” Brandon’s voice is soft against my ear. “Breathe.”
I realize I’m shaking, my chest so tight it hurts. Anne hurries over to me, enveloping me in her arms.
“It’s not your fault,” she whispers. “Please don’t blame yourself.”
“But I?—”
“You were eight. A child. Listen to me.” She hugs me tighter. “What Lydia did, what Dad covered up. That’s on them. Not you.”
“Jesus Christ.” Mykel slaps a hand on his face.
“I’m sorry.” Hot tears trickle down my cheek, dampening Anne’s blouse. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“What’s the point?” Her hand runs up and down my back. “Would it bring Mom back? Harry? Or would it have just destroyed another little girl? I made my peace with it. Or whatever passes for peace in this fucking family. And I wanted you to have it, too.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I should’ve told you sooner. I just didn’t?—”
“I love you.” Her voice cracks. “That hasn’t changed.”
I shake my head against her shoulder. “How can you not hate me?”
“For what? Being a terrified child?” She pulls back, her hands framing my face. “I had enough time to process this. To be angry. To grieve.”
“Well,” Mykel says. “This explains… so much.”
Dad clears his throat. “Anne.”
“Don’t.” Her fingers tighten on my cheeks. “You don’t get to speak right now.”
Brandon’s presence hovers behind me, solid and warm.
Dad takes a step toward us, but Landon’s broad frame blocks his path. The movement is subtle, almost casual, but there’s nothing casual about the way Landon’s shoulders are set or how his hands rest at his sides.
“I think,” Landon’s voice carries that quiet authority that makes even board members sit up straight, “you should stay where you are, David.”
Dad’s face flushes. “This is my house!”
“And these are your daughters.” Landon’s tone doesn’t change. “Who you’ve allowed to carry guilt that wasn’t theirs to bear. So right now, you’re going to give them space.”
Brandon’s hand settles on my lower back, and I lean into his touch, grateful for the anchor as Anne’s arms tighten around me.
“I was trying to protect—” Dad starts.
“No,” Landon cuts him off. “You were protecting yourself. There’s a difference.”
The silence stretches, broken only by the soft tick of the grandfather clock in the corner. Dad’s eyes dart between us—me, still wrapped in Anne’s embrace, Brandon’s protective stance behind me, Landon’s immovable presence between us and him—something close to defeat crossing his face.
His shoulders sag, and he sinks back into his chair. “We need to talk about this.”
“Mom would be so proud,” I say.
He points at me. “Don’t you dare bring her into this.”
“Which one? Clara or Lydia?” I ask. “Because, let’s be honest, you failed them both.”