I cut her off with a bitter laugh. "You don't know what I've seen. What I've failed to prevent."
"Then tell me." Her hand tightens on mine.
The words catch in my throat like broken glass. I've buried this story so deep, let it fester inside me for over twenty years. But those green eyes pull the poison out.
"Her name was Gianna Moretti." My voice sounds foreign to my own ears. "I was twelve when she showed up at our house. My father said she was a 'guest.' But they locked the room where they put her."
Lila's face pales but she doesn't pull away.
"She was eleven. Dark curls, these huge brown eyes. Wore a yellow dress with daisies on it." I stare at a point beyond Lila'sshoulder, seeing not the campus but that room. "She had a stuffed rabbit she called Mr. Hoppy. Pink, missing one ear."
The memory sears through me like white phosphorus.
"I stole the key and snuck in one day. She sat on the floor in front of the fireplace in her room, and asked me if monsters were real." I clench my jaw so hard it hurts. "I told her no. Fucking idiot that I was."
Lila's eyes glisten with unshed tears. I want to stop, spare her this ugliness, but the dam has broken.
"She was the daughter of Vincent Moretti—head of a rival family my father worked against. They took her as leverage in some territorial dispute." I drain my coffee, wishing it was whiskey. "I overheard my father on the phone, learned they were going to kill her if her father didn't comply to their demands."
"Oh, God," Lila whispers.
"I tried to help her escape. I stole the key again, got her as far as the garden before my father caught us." My hands ball into fists at the memory. "He beat me unconscious. When I came to, she was gone."
The campus noise fades to white static. In my mind, I'm still that helpless twelve-year-old, watching the local news report two days later.
"They found her body in the East River. She'd been..." I swallow hard. "The rabbit was missing so was her little dress."
Lila's tears fall freely now. She makes no move to wipe them away.
"I could've done more. Could've told someone, called the police. But I didn't think my father could bring a little girl harm. I didn't want to see the kind of monster he was."
"You were twelve," Lila says fiercely.
"Old enough to know better." The self-loathing tastes familiar, comfortable almost. "Old enough to know my fatherwas evil. But I did nothing until it was too late. Just like with Sarah."
Lila frowns, confusion crossing her features. "Sarah?"
Shit. The name slipped out without me meaning it to. Too late to backpedal now.
"The missing student I'm looking for. I've been tracking her since she disappeared after meeting with… someone—the same guy whose wife hired me to follow him." I run a hand over my face. "I think he hurt her, and I was too slow. Always too fucking slow."
She absorbs this, her journalist mind connecting dots.
I force myself to meet her eyes. "History has a sick way of repeating itself. Different monsters, same story."
"But you're trying to help now," she insists. "That matters."
"Does it? The body count stays the same."
Lila takes my face between her hands, her touch gentle but insistent. "Yes. It matters. You matter."
For a moment, I let myself believe her. Let myself imagine a world where men like me get redemption instead of just revenge. Where the ghosts of dead girls don't follow us into every dark room.
"I should go," I say finally. "Sarah's phone needs to get to my tech guy."
But I don't move. Not yet. For these few seconds more, I let myself be anchored by Lila's touch, by her unfathomable faith in me.
"Thank you," I say finally, the words strange and clumsy on my tongue. Gratitude isn't my native language.
