The aroma of fresh coffee mingled with the scent of baked goods, wrapping me in a sense of comfort as I took another bite of my cream cheese bagel. 

The café near my office was bustling but cozy, its soft jazz playlist doing its best to drown out the low hum of conversations and the occasional clatter of dishes. Across the table, Frida sipped her cappuccino, her green eyes bright with mischief.

"I can't believe you dragged yourself to work for one client," she teased, her voice warm and teasing.

I smirked, dabbing at the corner of my lips with a napkin. 

"Some clients prefer meeting face-to-face. It helps them relax, and I'd rather accommodate them than risk them feeling unheard."

Frida gave me a knowing look, shaking her head. 

"Ever the professional. Remind me again who's the counselor here—you or me?"

"Still me," I quipped, taking a sip of my latte. "But don't worry, you'd make a great one if you ever decided to switch careers."

Frida snorted, but her expression softened. 

"Seriously, though, Ruby, you're too good sometimes. One client isn't worth skipping a lazy day at home."

I rolled my eyes playfully but didn't argue. She wasn't wrong—I could've taken today off, but work gave me purpose, a sense of structure amidst the chaos my life sometimes devolved into.

The conversation shifted naturally, and Frida glanced at the café's television, where the news anchor was discussing the recently adjusted curfew restrictions. 

"Did you hear? The governor lifted the curfew in some cities."

"Really?" I said, setting my cup down. "Which ones?"

Frida rattled off the list, ending with, "But Greenwich, North Wickham, Opalton, and Brighton are still under curfew. Brighton's still included because, well... you know. Most of the victims were from Greenwich, and their bodies were found nearby."

I frowned, unease curling in my chest. 

"Doesn't it seem... premature to lift any curfews? The culprits haven't even been caught."

Frida nodded solemnly. 

"It doesn't make sense, but that's politics for you. Logic doesn't always win when there's public pressure and reputation on the line."

Her words lingered in the air, stirring memories of the fundraiser we'd recently wrapped up. 

"Speaking of illogical things," I began, arching an eyebrow at her. "Did we raise enough money at the fundraiser?"

Her face lit up, her smile so genuine it felt like sunshine breaking through clouds. "As we speak, Project Ruby successfully raised over seven million dollars in donations. After taxes and expenses, we're still looking at over five million to work with."

My teaspoon clinked against my cup as I froze mid-motion. 

"Wait—Project Ruby?"

She grinned sheepishly, as if I'd caught her in some secret she'd been dying to share. 

"Yep. That's what we called it."

I blinked, struggling to process her words. 

"Frida, why would you—"

"Because you inspired it," she interrupted, her tone brimming with sincerity. 

"Ruby, your perseverance, your resilience—it's been a light for so many people, especially me. You inspired me through college when I thought I couldn't keep going, and you still inspire me now. This project is about helping students who are drowning in debt, just like you were. It's about making sure they don't have to sacrifice as much as you did just to chase their dreams."

Her words hit me like a tidal wave, and I could feel my composure slipping. My throat tightened, and my eyes stung, but I forced a shaky laugh to mask it. 

Frida reached across the table, her hand warm against mine. 

"No tears, Ruby. You've cried enough for one lifetime. This—" she gestured between us, the café, the world—"this is what you deserve. Thanks to you, more students will have a shot at a better future, without all the pain you endured. You're a role model, Ruby, even if you don't realize it."

I bit my lip, swallowing the lump in my throat as her words settled over me like a blanket. Her admiration, her unwavering belief in me—it was overwhelming in the best way.

For a long moment, I couldn't speak, so I just squeezed her hand.

"You're incredible, you know that?" I said finally, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Right back at you," she replied with a wink, leaning back in her chair.

The rest of our breakfast passed in a blur of laughter and lighter conversation, but Frida's words stayed with me. 

They weren't just a reminder of the sacrifices I'd made; they were a testament to the ripple effect of resilience, of hope, of the human capacity to keep going even when the odds seemed insurmountable.

Frida's laughter faded, her expression softening into something more serious. Her hands cradled her cup, fingers fidgeting slightly as if bracing herself for what she was about to say.

"Ruby," she began hesitantly, her tone unusually cautious. "There's something I need to tell you."

I glanced at her, sensing the shift in mood. "What is it?"

Her face turned pleading, her brows knitting together. 

"Terry's been trying to get a hold of you."

I frowned, confused. "Terry?"

She sighed, setting her cup down. 

"Detective Terry. The one who's been trying to get your statement ever since you got out of the hospital."

My stomach churned at the mention of the hospital, and an uncomfortable weight settled over my chest. The memory of that night—the screaming, the flames, the unbearable terror—lurched forward like an unwanted guest. I stared at Frida, hoping this was some ill-conceived joke, but her serious expression confirmed otherwise.

I sank back into my chair, suddenly drained. 

"Why would you bring this up now, Frida?" I asked quietly, the warmth I'd felt earlier now replaced by a creeping chill.

She bit her lip, clearly torn. 

"I know you don't want to think about it. I get it, Red, I really do. But Terry said your statement is crucial. You're the only living victim of their attack."

Her words felt like an accusation, even if she didn't mean them to. I looked away, my gaze falling to the crumbs on my plate. For a moment, I let the hum of the café fill the silence between us.

"I don't want to relive that night," I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. 

"Things are finally... getting better. I've even planned to go to my family's house this weekend, Frida. To finally speak with my Papa."

I hesitated, my chest tightening at the thought. "I need to fix things with him. And with Donald, too. I can't keep running from what happened between us."

Frida reached across the table, her hand gently squeezing mine. 

"I understand," she said softly. 

"But Ruby... kids were involved in the murders. You've seen the news. It's been haunting me ever since I heard about it."

I swallowed hard, her words hitting me like a punch to the gut. The image of the little boy's picture on the screen flashed in my mind, and I quickly pushed it away, my stomach turning.

"Terry told me," she continued, her voice pleading, "that your statement could be the key to solving this. The same way you're so passionate about helping people, Ruby—this is a chance to help those families. To give them closure."

Her hand tightened over mine, her gaze imploring. "And maybe... maybe it'll give you some peace too. I know you're scared, even if you don't say it. You think they'll come back for you, don't you? Or that they'll try again?"

I flinched at her words, the truth in them cutting deeper than I wanted to admit. I couldn't lie to her. Not to Frida.

"I..." My voice wavered, and I shook my head, unable to meet her eyes. "I don't know."

"Ruby, please," she whispered, her eyes glistening with emotion. "Just think about it. Talk to him. You don't have to decide anything now, but at least consider it. For your sake, and for theirs."

The sincerity in her voice made it impossible to refuse outright. I sighed, my shoulders slumping in defeat. 

"I'll think about it," I murmured reluctantly.

Her face softened with relief, and she gave my hand another gentle squeeze. "That's all I ask."

I pulled my hand away, wiping at the corner of my eye under the guise of brushing back my hair. The emotions swirling inside me felt too heavy to sort through, and I needed to escape before they overwhelmed me.

"Let's head home," I suggested, forcing a small smile that didn't quite reach my eyes. "I think I've had enough caffeine for one day."

Frida nodded, standing with me as we gathered our things. The drive back to our house was quiet, the earlier lightness of our conversation replaced by a solemn understanding.

As we drove through the crisp afternoon air, I couldn't shake the weight of her words. 

Somewhere deep down, I knew she was right. But facing those memories, those truths, felt like stepping into a storm I wasn't sure I was strong enough to weather.

🧮🧮

The rhythmic tapping of my fingers on the calculator echoed through the living room, mingling with the faint hum of the heater.

The numbers stared back at me, unyielding and unbalanced.

I sighed, taking a sip of my now lukewarm coffee.

Bookkeeping wasn't exactly therapeutic, but it was necessary—like scraping rust off an old blade.

My phone buzzed on the couch beside me, pulling me out of my concentration. Mama's name flashed on the screen.

I hesitated for a moment before answering. 

"Hi, Mama," I said, my voice softening instinctively.

"Ruby..." The tremor in her voice hit me. Mama never let herself sound this frail, this broken.

"It's your brother."

Donald.

Of course, it was Donald.

My chest tightened. "What about him?"

"He's in jail."

The words didn't register at first, like they were in some foreign language I couldn't understand.

"What?" I finally said, sitting up straight. "What do you mean, jail?"

"They arrested him this morning," she explained, her voice wobbling. "At the construction site."

I gritted my teeth, gripping the phone tightly. "What did he do?"

"I don't know all the details, but... it's bad, Ruby." Her voice cracked, and I could hear her trying to hold back tears.

"Please. You have to help him before your father finds out. If he does..." She trailed off, but I didn't need her to finish the sentence.

I could already picture Papa's face, the explosion of anger, the cutting words that would leave scars no one else could see.

My free hand clenched into a fist. 

This is what he gets, a dark voice whispered in my mind. 

After everything he'd done—the lies, the manipulation, the way he'd driven a wedge between me and my family—Donald deserved to face the consequences of his actions. Maybe jail would finally knock some sense into him.

But then I heard Mama's voice again, trembling, on the verge of breaking.

"Please, Ruby," she begged. "I don't know what to do."

I closed my eyes, pressing the heel of my palm against my forehead. 

Every fiber of me wanted to say, This isn't my problem. But the image of Mama, sitting alone in that tiny living room, wringing her hands and praying for someone to save her son, wouldn't let me.

"Alright," I said finally, my voice tight. "I'll take care of it. Just... don't tell Papa yet, okay? Let me figure out what's going on first."

"Thank you, Ruby," she whispered, relief spilling into her tone. "Thank you."

When the call ended, I tossed my phone onto the couch and sat there for a long moment, staring at nothing.

My stomach churned with anger, frustration, and something I couldn't quite name.

This wasn't fair.

Donald wasn't fair.

Grabbing my keys, I headed out the door, each step feeling heavier than the last.

🍩🍩

The Belleview Police Department was just as bleak and unwelcoming as I remembered from my time working as an intern and dropping by to assist a client.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a harsh glare on the linoleum floors.

I approached the front desk, where an officer barely glanced up from his computer.

"Hi," I said, forcing a polite tone. "I'm here about Donald Nielson. He was arrested this morning."

The officer tapped on his keyboard for a moment before looking at me. "Donald Nielson," he repeated. "He's being held on charges of fraud and conspiracy."

"Fraud?" My voice came out sharper than I intended.

"Yes," he replied, leaning back in his chair.

"He and a group of others were involved in an investment scheme. They convinced a woman to invest in what they claimed was a real estate project. Turns out, it was a scam. The main suspect—the one who actually took the money—is still at large, but your brother and the others are being held as co-conspirators."

I stared at him, my hands curling into fists at my sides. "So, he didn't even know it was a scam?"

"That's what he says," the officer said with a shrug. "But ignorance isn't a defense. He was part of the operation, and until the main suspect is caught, the charges stand."

I bit the inside of my cheek, trying to keep my temper in check. Of course, Donald would get himself tangled in something like this. Gullible, reckless, and so utterly blind to the consequences of his actions.

The officer slid a clipboard toward me. "If you're here to post bail, fill these out."

I didn't move at first, staring down at the forms like they were some kind of trap.

My thoughts were a whirlwind.

Donald's lies flashed through my mind—how he'd kept me from my family, how he'd stood by silently while Papa tore me apart, how he'd watched me walk out of the house in tears and never lifted a finger to stop me.

Let him rot, that dark voice whispered again.

But then I thought of Mama. Her tearful voice, her desperate plea. She didn't deserve this. She'd already suffered enough.

With a long, shaky breath, I grabbed the clipboard and began filling out the paperwork.

My hands trembled slightly, a mix of nerves and barely contained fury. 

I couldn't believe I was here—standing in a sterile, lifeless room, filling out forms for a brother who had put himself in this mess, who had kept me in the dark for years. 

After what felt like an eternity of answering questions and dealing with paperwork, the officer behind the desk finally assured me that they would release Donald, but that he couldn't leave the city until the case was resolved or the charges were dropped.

I nodded absently, my head still spinning from the shock of it all. 

As I walked out of the building, the cool air hit my face, but it didn't ease the burning anger I felt coiling in my chest. I leaned against my car, waiting for him.

And then, I saw him.

Donald walked out of the police department, his shoulders slumped, his head lowered in a way that made my insides churn. 

His eyes met mine briefly, but he didn't come closer right away. 

He stopped a few steps away from me, the distance between us too much for my patience.

Without a word, I pushed off the car, my feet moving faster than I'd expected. 

The moment I was close enough, I didn't hesitate. 

The slap landed with a sharp crack against his cheek, and I felt the sting in my palm before the coldness in my chest fully settled.

He staggered back slightly, stunned by the force of my anger. 

His hand instinctively went to his face, but he didn't speak. His eyes were wide, but the guilt in them was deeper than the silence between us. 

He saw it. 

He saw the anger burning in my eyes, the fury that had been bottled up for years. 

This wasn't the sister he'd left behind, the one who cried herself to sleep or apologized for everything. 

No. 

The woman standing before him was hardened, and the guilt-tripped little girl he'd taken for granted was gone.

I could feel my pulse pounding in my throat, my chest heavy with all the emotions I'd kept locked away. My voice came out steady, though it was laced with venom.

"You—" I breathed, taking a step closer, not giving him a chance to look away. 

"You really thought you could just leave us in the dark, huh? You thought you could lie to us, to ME, and get away with it?"

I took another step, my hands trembling now not from fear, but from the force of everything I had to say.

"You watched Mama suffer. You watched Papa's disappointment tear through her, and you just... kept puppeteering it all. How could you? How could you do this to your family?" I felt the words coming out in a rush now, each sentence building the wall between us higher and higher.

"Do you think you're entitled to whatever you want, that your actions don't affect anyone else?" 

My breath was shallow, my chest tight with the raw intensity of my words. 

"You've made Mama cry, and you don't even care, do you?"

Donald didn't speak. He didn't even try to defend himself. He just stood there, a broken man in the face of the consequences he'd been running from for far too long.

"You should be damn lucky it was Mama who called me," I spat. 

"If it were anyone else, I wouldn't give a damn about what happened to you. You put us all through hell, Donald. I've never been more disgusted in my life. So don't think for a second that I'm here because I care about you. I'm here for Mama."

His posture was small now, his face contorted with regret, but there was nothing left to say. 

The shame had already carved deep lines into his face, and the words he wanted to speak were silenced by the weight of everything he'd done.

"I hope you know this," I continued, my voice colder than I'd ever heard it before. 

"For every tear you've made Mama shed, for every time you've made me wonder if I'll ever see the family I once knew, you're going to pay. Not in money, not in words, but in sweat and tears. I want you to feel every ounce of what you've done."

I felt a tightness in my throat, but I pushed it down. 

This was bigger than me, bigger than him. 

This was about finally standing up for what was right, for the family that had been torn apart by his selfishness.

I turned away before he could say anything. I wasn't interested in hearing his apologies or excuses.

"I'll make sure Mama knows you're safe," I muttered, walking toward the car without looking back. The engine roared to life, and as I pulled away from the parking lot, I tried to ignore the feeling that I was leaving something behind. 

But for once, I didn't feel guilty. He needed to face what he had done, and now, for the first time in years, I wasn't going to be the one to save him.

🔥🔥

When I finally pulled into the driveway of our family home, a place that had once been a haven but now felt like a burden, I couldn't shake the weight pressing down on my chest. 

I had done what was expected—assured Mama that Donald was safe—but that didn't mean I felt at peace.

I shut off the engine, sitting in the car for a beat longer than necessary, letting the quiet hum of the engine fade into the silence. The house loomed before me, and for a moment, I thought about turning around. But the ache in Mama's voice when she called me earlier held me captive.

I stepped out of the car, my shoes crunching on the gravel as I walked toward the front door. 

My hand hovered over the doorknob for a moment before I twisted it, pushing it open.

Inside, the house smelled like old memories, warm but stifling. 

Mama was in the kitchen, standing over the stove, her back to me. She turned when I stepped inside, her face lighting up with relief. But then, she saw the distance in my eyes, the way I stood, poised and stiff as if I were just a visitor, not her daughter.

"Oh, Baby!" Mama said, her voice full of that familiar warmth, but there was an edge of uncertainty there too. "You're here! Is everything okay? Is Donald...?"

"He's fine, Mama," I said, my voice steady but lacking any real comfort. 

I couldn't give her that right now. 

"He's been released, but he can't leave the city until the charges are resolved. They didn't find him guilty, but they're holding him on the case until the investigation is complete."

Mama seemed to breathe a little easier at that, but there was something still hanging in the air, a question she was too afraid to ask. I could see it in her eyes, that mother's instinct, the unspoken worry that I hadn't come with him.

"Why didn't you come with him, sweetie?" she asked, her voice soft but desperate for an answer. 

She knew me too well.

I shifted, avoiding her gaze. 

"I had some work to finish up, Mama." 

The words came out more hollow than I intended, but there was no way I was going to explain the bitterness I felt toward Donald right now. 

Not to her.

Mama hesitated, a frown deepening on her forehead, but before she could press further, there was a rattle on the door. 

I turned, my heart sinking as I heard the shuffle of footsteps.

Donald walked in slowly, his head down, hands shoved into his pockets. He looked like he'd just been dragged through hell. 

He didn't look up at me as he entered, and I couldn't stop the disgust that bubbled up in me. I was tired of pretending everything was okay.

"See, Mama, he's safe," I said flatly, my words like ice, directed more at Donald than her.

Mama turned to face him, but I didn't let my eyes stray from him. I could feel the anger coursing through me, tightening in my chest. 

He didn't deserve my sympathy, not after everything he'd put us through.

Mama glanced between us, sensing the shift in the air. Her voice trembled with confusion. 

"Ruby, what's going on? Why are you acting like this? Why didn't you come with him?"

I clenched my jaw, my heart pounding with frustration. I wasn't about to get into it with her. 

Not now, not here.

"Ask your son," I said, my words cutting deep. 

I couldn't look at him any longer. My gaze turned toward Mama, softer now, but laced with something sharp. 

"I'm leaving, Mama. I'll see you on Saturday."

Mama reached out, her hand grasping mine as if trying to hold me here, trying to keep me from walking away, but I pulled back. I couldn't stay here, not in this moment, not with the pressure suffocating me.

"Mama, please," I said, my voice softening just a little as I took her shoulders in my hands. "We'll talk more on Saturday, okay? I've got work to do."

I leaned in and kissed her cheek, feeling the weight of the years between us, the pain we'd both carried. She still held on to my wrist, her fingers curling gently, but she didn't stop me when I turned to leave.

"Baby..." she whispered, but I was already out the door, my hand on the car door handle. 

I paused for a brief moment, glancing back at the house that had once felt like home but now seemed like a prison.

👓👓

I stood at the porch for a moment, letting the cool evening air brush against my skin. 

The sun had dipped below the horizon, painting the sky with streaks of orange and purple. The neighborhood was calm, quiet—just the sound of distant voices and the occasional car passing. 

It was a stark contrast to the chaos of the afternoon. Donald's arrest, Mama's tears, the suffocating weight of everything that had gone wrong... I didn't want to bring that back into the house.

I took a deep breath and stared at the familiar surroundings, focusing on the little things that brought me peace—the soft hum of a breeze rustling the leaves, the smell of blooming jasmine from someone's garden, the distant chatter of children playing. 

I needed this moment, to just breathe, before I stepped inside and let the tension settle.

I saw Frida's car parked in the driveway, so I knew she was already home. 

It was reassuring to know she was here, but I needed a second. I wasn't ready to let the weight of the day affect her mood.

Just as I was about to head inside, the door opened, and Frida appeared in the doorway. 

Her gaze softened when she saw me lingering outside, like she'd heard the arrival of my car and sensed I hadn't come in yet.

"Everything okay?" she asked, her voice full of concern.

I nodded, letting out a shaky breath. "Yeah. I just needed a minute."

Frida stepped aside to let me in, and I felt a tiny bit of relief as the warmth of our home washed over me. 

But that relief was fleeting. 

We both stepped into the living room, and I froze when my eyes landed on the man standing by the couch.

He was tall, rugged, but still somehow put together in a way that didn't look too forced. 

His white button-up shirt looked neat, though his sleeves were rolled up, showing the tattoos peeking from his forearms. Grey slacks, a black coat draped across the sofa—he was well-dressed, but there was a certain roughness about him. 

His brown hair was slightly tousled, and a neatly trimmed beard framed his jaw. And then, the glasses. They gave him a more approachable air, but the way he stood, the way his eyes studied me, told me this was no ordinary man.

I blinked, unsure of what I was seeing. Was he supposed to be here?

Frida caught my glance and sheepishly stepped forward. 

"Ruby, this is Terry. He's the detective from Greenwich Police Department," she said, her tone a little awkward, as though she knew this wasn't exactly what I had been expecting.

Terry's gaze shifted to mine, and he offered a hand, his expression neutral. 

"Nice to meet you, Ruby."

I wasn't sure what I expected, but it definitely wasn't this.