"Sam!"

I knew it was Ridge without looking. His voice wasn't familiar exactly, but something about the urgency in it made my pulse quicken. His footsteps were heavy behind me, but I couldn't move. I wasn't sure if I was going to collapse or throw up.

"Sam, wait," Ridge called again, his tone less sharp now that he was closer. When he reached me, I didn't straighten up. I couldn't. The weight of everything still clung to me, making it hard to breathe.

"Just... just leave me alone," I muttered, still bent over. My voice was shaky, my mind clouded with too many thoughts at once.

"I'm not leaving," Ridge said, stopping a few steps away. He sounded like he meant it, but I wasn't sure what to make of him anymore. I barely knew him, and yet here he was, following me like he had some right to.

"Why are you even here?" I managed, my voice raw, straightening up to finally face him. "How... how did you know where we'd be?"

Ridge exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "I was hired, Sam."

"Hired?" I repeated, confused. "What do you mean you were hired?"

"By Mr Malone," Ridge admitted. "He's been searching for his daughter for years, and when he saw the photo... of you..." He hesitated, as if the words felt heavy in his mouth. "He thought you might be her."

I blinked at him, my confusion turning to anger. "So, what? You've been spying on me this whole time? Following me because someone paid you to?"

"It's not like that," Ridge said quickly, taking a step forward. "At first, yes. I was hired to find out if you were Casey. But things changed."

"Changed?" My voice was louder now, my hands shaking. "You broke into my house, Ridge! You were sneaking around my garden in the middle of the night. You've been lying to me this whole time, and now you want me to believe that things 'changed'?"

Ridge's face tightened, but he didn't back down. "I didn't break in for no reason, Sam. There's more to this. Mr Malone wanted to be careful. He didn't want your mother to go on the run if she thought the police were involved."

I froze, confusion twisting inside me. "What are you talking about?"

Ridge sighed, rubbing his hands together as if gathering his thoughts. "Look, Mr Malone... he wants you back. He really does. But when Casey disappeared, it didn't just take away his daughter. His wife—Casey's mum—couldn't handle it. She slipped into depression, and a few years later, she... she took her own life."

The words hit me like a punch, my anger faltering for a moment. Ridge's voice softened.

"He lost everything. He blames your mum, Sam. He thinks she's the reason Casey—if you're Casey—was taken away from him in the first place. And he was scared... terrified that if your mum caught wind of the police getting involved, she'd run. And he couldn't risk losing you again. Not after losing his wife, too."

I swallowed hard, the pieces falling into place, but it still felt like too much to process.

I knew she wasn't much of a mother, but this—it was unthinkable. The words echoed in my mind like a voice whispering in the dark, growing louder with every passing second.

I turned just in time as I vomited on the ground. Ridge moved quickly, smoothly grabbing my hair, scooping it in and around his hand, holding it out of my face. His other hand rubbed my back, just between my shoulder blades. His touch was steady—too steady. It didn't feel like comfort; it felt like control. The thought twisted in my stomach, blending uneasily with the warmth of his hand.

I leaned over, gasping for air, my whole body trembling as the reality of everything hit me like a tidal wave. Ridge's hand stayed firm on my back, his rhythmic touch almost mechanical, like he was performing some rehearsed motion. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, still feeling nauseous but empty now—both inside and out.

"Wait here," he said abruptly, getting up from the bench with a swiftness that made me flinch. He jogged down the street, disappearing into the shadows for what felt like an eternity before returning with a bottle of still water, a bottle of Lucozade, and a sparkling water. The sight of him standing there with the drinks made something twist in my gut—like he'd known I'd fall apart, like he'd been waiting for this moment.

He sat back down and held them up to me, his gaze unreadable.

"Thank you," I murmured, taking the Lucozade and gulping from the bottle. The sweetness hit my throat, cool and sharp, but it didn't drown out the bitter taste in my mouth. I wiped my mouth again with the back of my hand, aware of Ridge watching me as if he were studying every move I made. Why was he so calm? So prepared?

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to piece it all together, but my thoughts wouldn't stay still. They darted in jagged, fragmented lines, the edges cutting into me. None of it made sense. None of it could make sense.

This was sickening. What had happened to the other babies? The question throbbed in my skull like a warning siren, growing louder with every breath.

"Are you okay?" Ridge asked quietly, his voice low and careful. But there was a roughness in his tone, something that made my skin prickle. Concern? Or something else?

I felt the beginning taps of rain on my scalp, cool and sudden, before bigger droplets started hitting my face. The rhythmic patter of water on my skin pulled me back, as though the rain itself was trying to ground me. I tilted my face up towards the sky, letting the droplets sting my cheeks and drip down my neck. 

"I don't know," I finally murmured, my voice brittle. "I just don't understand," I whispered, keeping my face tilted towards the grey clouds. The sky churned above me, heavy and unrelenting. "If this is all true... if she really did take me... why? Why would she do that?"

The rain soaked through my clothes, the cold biting into my skin and spreading like a chill to my bones. But the discomfort was welcome. It dulled the sharp, gnawing ache inside me. Ridge shifted beside me, his hand brushing my shoulder briefly, almost hesitantly, as if he were testing the boundaries between comfort and intrusion. The gesture made me shiver—not from the cold, but from the sense that I was being pulled into something I didn't fully understand.

"Let's get out of the rain," he said, his voice deep and gravelly but softer than I expected. But there was something behind it, something I couldn't quite place. Why did he care? What was in this for him?

I nodded but didn't turn my face away from the rain. I needed it, the sting of it, the distraction. The weight of Ridge's words pressed down on me, heavier than the rain itself. He was right. But I couldn't face Frank yet. Not after everything I'd just learned. I just wasn't ready.

"I can't go back there yet," I finally said, turning to Ridge and wiping my wet hair out of my face, my hands trembling against my skin.

Ridge didn't push. He just nodded, something flickering in his eyes that I couldn't decipher. "Okay. We don't have to. Let's get out of the rain, and you can decide what comes next."

I was so surprised by how soft and gentle he was being with me. It was such a stark contrast to the person I thought he was. But the softness unsettled me. Was it real? Or was it calculated?

Ridge led me away from the bench, his hand resting gently on my back as we walked in silence. The rain was still coming down steadily, soaking through my clothes, but I barely noticed it now. My mind was too heavy, too full, to focus on anything other than the confusion and fear swirling inside me.

I wasn't ready to face Frank Malone. Not yet. I wasn't ready to be Casey—his lost daughter. I wasn't sure I ever would be. But the questions were eating away at me. Why had my mother taken me? What had happened to those other babies?

Ridge didn't rush me, and for that, I was grateful. His presence, while confusing and full of betrayal, was also strangely comforting in a way I hadn't expected. Maybe it was because he knew what was happening, yet he still felt like a stranger.

"I don't really want to be around anybody right now," I said as we approached a coffee shop.

"I know where we can go."

The rain started to come down harder, each drop stinging against my skin as it lashed against us. Within moments, it became a torrential downpour, so heavy and fast that the air seemed thicker, harder to breathe. I had to blink constantly to keep the water from flooding my eyes, my hair plastered to my face. The sound was deafening, like the entire sky had opened up and was crashing down around us.

Ridge and I began to jog through the downpour, our footsteps splashing in the puddles that formed along the streets. The rain gave me an excuse to keep my head down, my thoughts still a chaotic mess. Ridge kept close, his presence steady beside me as we wove through the narrow streets of Moulding Springs.

We turned a corner and stopped outside a tall apartment building. Ridge guided me toward the main door, punching in a keycode. The door snapped open with a ding. He held it open for me, and I stepped inside. The warmth of the building washed over me, a stark contrast to the biting cold rain that had soaked through every layer of my clothing. My wet clothes clung to me like a second skin, heavy and uncomfortable.

The apartment building was nicer than I'd expected—clean, with a polished floor that gleamed faintly under the overhead lights. Daylight streamed in from large windows, though the rain blurred the view outside. We stopped in front of apartment two, and Ridge reached into his pocket, pulling out a set of keys. The door creaked open, and Ridge stepped aside to let me in first.

I walked in hesitantly, shivering despite the warmth. My clothes were cold and wet, and the dampness seemed to seep into my bones.

The apartment was small and clean, but papers were scattered everywhere, covering nearly every surface.

"You should take off your clothes," Ridge said, and I shot him a look.

"No... I mean... I'll get you dry clothes," he added quickly, his cheeks going a tinted pink that highlighted the dark pink of his scar.

I raised an eyebrow at Ridge's awkwardness, his usually composed demeanour cracking for a moment. His attempt at correction was almost endearing, but I was too exhausted to tease him about it.

"Yeah, dry clothes would be good," I muttered, hugging my arms around myself as the damp coldness from my wet clothes clung to my skin. The warmth of the apartment had only made the chill more pronounced.

Ridge hurried across the small space, stepping over the scattered papers. They were everywhere, littering the coffee table, the floor near the couch, even the kitchen counter. I glanced down and saw names and numbers scribbled hastily on some of them. Investigations, leads, notes from who knows how many cases. His life was far more chaotic than I had imagined. The sight made my stomach twist—this wasn't just his job. This was his obsession.

Ridge returned quickly with a set of clothes—a pair of grey joggers and a plain black t-shirt that looked worn but clean. He handed them to me without making eye contact, his gaze flickering nervously between me and the mess of papers scattered around the room.

"Bathroom's through there," he said, nodding toward a door at the far end of the small hallway. "Take your time."

I nodded, gripping the clothes tightly, and made my way to the bathroom, stepping over the mess as carefully as I could. I closed the door behind me and leaned against it for a moment, letting out a long, shaky breath.

The small bathroom was surprisingly tidy compared to the rest of the flat. A modest sink, a mirror slightly fogged from the humidity of the room, and a shower that looked like it had been used not too long ago. It was simple, but right now it felt like a sanctuary.

I placed the clothes on the sink and caught my reflection in the mirror. The face staring back wasn't mine—it couldn't be. Pale, hollow-eyed, and dripping wet.

The tap dripped steadily, each drop echoing louder than it should in the small space. Ridge's papers, his calmness, the name Monica Rodriguez—all of it pressed in around me, tightening like a noose.

Who was I really? And how much did Ridge know?