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Kaylee's eyes widen at that. "Threatened you?"

I nod. "Not with a gun or knife, but with truth. She told me I'd kill my baby if I didn't stop. She hurled her words across the apartment at me. And told me that someday I'd probably kill myself too."

"That was mean."

I touch Kaylee's hand at the soft words. "No, it was true, sweetie. Ruby didn't want to say those things, in fact, she cried when she said them. But she knew she had to help me. Telling me the truth, even though it hurt both of us, was the only way she could help. She begged me to stop."

"Did you?"

Oh, if only I had. I could still see the scene, how I looked at her and felt nothing. Nothing for the danger I was putting my baby in and nothing for myself. What did it matter?

"No, I didn't. I ignored her and headed for the door, and that's when she hit me with the real threat."

"What did she say?"

"If I wouldn't stop on my own, that she'd call my parents and tell them everything."

Kaylee's eyes widened. "Everything?"

So much fear in that one word. I nodded. "Everything. I turned and looked at her, to see if she was serious. She just stood there, shoulders squared, arms crossed, face stained with tears. And a few days later . . ."

"What?"

"Mother and Daddy showed up."

"She really told them? Wasn't she afraid you'd be mad at her?"

"Yes, she was. But she loved me so much that she risked losing my friendship to help me. She had to tell the truth."

Kaylee's gaze shifts from me to the ground. "What . . . what happened . . . when they found out?"

"My parents took me to a doctor. They watched me around the clock. They moved me to live here, and they stayed with me. Ruby came too. They wouldn't let me hurt myself anymore. It was too late for Annie . . ." The stab of loss stills my words, and I take a deep breath. "But they helped me."

"Did that make it . . . better?"

The question was so soft, I almost didn't hear it. "Not at first. For a long time, for almost twelve years, I lived in a prison of anger. I was so angry with myself for what I did to Annie. I couldn't accept that God could still love me."

She nodded. "Because you were so bad."

I lean forward and reach for her hand. "Oh, but sweetie, I was wrong. I was so wrong."

Her gaze lifts to meet mine again.

"Little one, it wasn't until I met you, that I discovered the truth! God does love me—no matter what. Kaylee, if Ruby hadn't told the truth, I wouldn't have gotten the help I needed. But even with that help, I was lost. In anger. In shame. In the end, it's Jesus who saved me. The truth of His love and forgiveness. And you know what? Nothing that I'd done, not even causing my baby's death, stopped God from loving me. Not for one second. He loves us, little one, not because of who we are, but because of who He is." I give her hand a squeeze. I've said all I need to say. The rest is up to God.

And Kaylee.

I let go of her hand and stand. "I'm going to go clean up the kitchen, put my easel and things away."

She nods when I leave her there, sitting on the deck, staring out at the yard.

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

Kaylee

At first I try not to think about what Sierra said. I try not to think about Ruby. I try really hard not to think about how Ruby telling Sierra's parents the truth was what finally helped Sierra. I especially try not to think about my mom. Because even though Sierra didn't say it exactly, I get what she was telling me.

My telling the truth might help my mom.

But . . .

I'm trying not to think about that. There are too many what-ifs and the what-ifs make my stomach churn.

I lean back in the chair on the deck and close my eyes. I open the box in my mind and shuffle through my words. But as I visualize my words, I see new words in my box. Words I didn't put there. They're not even hard words.

hon·est—adjective
1. free of deceit and untruthfulness.

frank—adjective
1. open, honest, and direct in speech or writing, esp. when dealing with unpalatable matters.

sin·cere—adjective
1. free from pretense or deceit.

I mentally slam the box shut, open my eyes, and stand up. I stand up so fast that Van, who's lying at my feet, stands up fast too. His legs are wobbly underneath him. Then he looks at me. His sleepy eyes seem wide with concern.

"Let's go!" I tell him, and he follows me into the kitchen, down the hall, and into my room. I shut the door, plop down on my bed, stare at the ceiling, and think more about not thinking. I get back up before Van even has a chance to settle on the floor.

"C'mon."

He follows me to the living room where I, without even asking, turn on the TV. Sierra says watching TV stunts creativity. Even with the volume up, I can hear Sierra's flip-flops slapping the hardwood in the hallway. She stops at the end of the hall and looks at me. I look back. She just stands there looking at me for a minute and then turns and heads back to her room.

I guess stunting my creativity is okay for today.

I lie on the sofa and watch reruns of old shows that make me laugh. Van sleeps on the floor next to me. I hang my arm over the edge of the sofa and rest my hand in the fur around his neck. We stay like that for the rest of the afternoon. Sierra comes and goes and even brings me dinner on a tray and watches a show with me.

But at bedtime she tells me to turn off the TV.

"But . . ."

"Kaylee, turn it off. It's time." She smiles at me. "Come on, I'll read you a story after you brush your teeth."

Later, long after the lights are out, I remember that the only way to really stop thinking about something is to actually think about it and get it over with.

So . . . I do.

What surprises me is that when I finally let myself think about telling the truth, I don't think about telling the truth at all. Instead I remember what Sierra said about Jesus
being
the truth and the one who will set me free. And I remember the words to the song Grammy taught me:
Jesus loves me this I know . . .

I pull the covers up over my head and curl into the dark pocket of space between the sheets. My breath warms the trapped air and I feel like a caterpillar in a cocoon. There I talk to Jesus. I tell Him I remember Him from before—from before Grammy died and before my mom left. I tell Him I know He is true and that I want Him to live in my heart just like He lived in Sierra's heart when she was little.

"And Jesus"—I whisper into the dark—"please help me."

After I talk to Jesus, I stay under the covers for a long time and I think. But it isn't as scary anymore. I think about the real things—about how my mom was and how she left me. I think about the drugs and how they changed her. I think about the lie I heard her tell Sierra. And I know, deep in my heart, that even though telling the truth might make her mad at me and make her never want to see me again, it is the only way I might help her get better.

So I make my decision.

I throw the covers back and climb out of bed. I tiptoe into Sierra's room and stand by her bed. She rolls over, lifts her head to look at the clock, then lies back down and closes her eyes again. I put my hand on her shoulder. "Sierra? Are you awake?"

She doesn't move.

"Sierra . . ."

Finally she rolls back over and opens her eyes. "Hey . . . little one . . ." She looks back at the clock. "It's only . . . 4:46." She pats the other side of the bed. "Climb in."

I shake my head. "No."

"No?" She sits up, leaning back on her elbows, and looks at me like she's trying to focus. Then she reaches over and switches on the lamp on her nightstand. "You okay?"

"I . . . I want to tell you something."

"Now?"

I nod. "Now."

"Okay." She sits up and puts another pillow behind her and leans back. "Here, sit down." She yawns and then scoots her legs out of my way, and I sit down on the side of the bed. "What's up?"

I reach for the comb on her nightstand and hand it to her. "Would you . . . would you comb my hair?"

"Oh, little one, I'd love to. I've missed combing your hair."

She begins running the comb through my hair. "I want to . . . I want to tell you something. I wasn't . . . my mom . . . she said . . . she said I was kidnapped. I . . . heard her. But . . . I wasn't."

Sierra stops combing and rests her hands on my shoulders. She doesn't say anything.

"She . . . she . . . she . . ." I gulp.

"Take a deep breath." Sierra's steady hands are comforting on my shoulders and then she turns me toward her. "Move over here, sweetie, so I can see you."

I turn around and sit in front of her. "She . . . left. And she never . . . came back. She . . . she left me there with . . . with . . ." My eyes burn and my chest gets heavy. Each breath gets harder to take.

Sierra leans forward and reaches for my hand. "You're doing great, Kaylee. You're doing great."

I take another breath and ask the question that's weighed on me for weeks. "Will she get in trouble?"

Sierra doesn't say anything. Finally I ask again. "Will she?"

"Kaylee, she was supposed to take care of you, to protect you. She didn't do that. By not doing that, she broke the law and she'll have to pay the consequences for that. But, little one, she'll also get the help she needs to be healthy."

"Like when . . . like when Ruby told your parents about you?"

She reaches over and puts her palm on the side of my face. "Yes. Just like that."

I stare at the floor thinking about what Sierra said.

"Kaylee, is there anything else you want to tell me?"

I look at her and shrug.

Then I nod.

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

Sierra

On a crisp fall morning, with the leaves outside my bedroom window relinquishing their hold on summer, I sit on my bed with Kaylee and listen to her words as she finally relinquishes the secrets that have held her captive.

Each word is a struggle, pulled from the depths of her soul. At first, when she begins talking about her mom, she sits with her back to me as she talks. But I need to see her face, or perhaps more important, I need her to see mine as she speaks. I place my hands on her shoulders and gently turn her to face me. I reach for her face and hold it between my hands for a moment before leaning in and kissing her on the forehead. "Keep going, little one. You're doing great."

Oh, Lord, help her. Give her strength.

As she unfolds her story, I hold my anger close, not wanting her to misinterpret what I'm feeling, to think my anger is directed at her.

Then this courageous little girl dares to share the unthinkable.

I realize, as I listen, that this child with myriad words in her vocabulary doesn't know the words for what she's suffered. Nor should she.

My anger swells and releases in waves of tears—tears shed for the agony Kaylee suffered at the hands of a very sick man. I cry with her and for her. I cry for all she's lost.

Kaylee cries, too, as she speaks. But as I study her sweet face, I realize hers are tears of shame. At first I'm angry. At him. At what she's feeling because of him. And then I'm determined. She will not feel that one second longer.

Over and over I encourage her and whisper to her. "It wasn't your fault, sweetie. It wasn't your fault."

We pass a box of tissues back and forth.

When Kaylee's words are finally spent, I pull her close and spread the down comforter over us. Holding her tight, I feel her tears subside and her breathing steady.

"Kaylee . . . you are the bravest person I've ever known. I love you, Kaylee Wren, and I always will." I feel the slight nod of her head just before her breathing signals she's fallen asleep. I pray it is a sleep of deep peace.

As I hold her in my arms, my own tears flow again. But this time they are tears of hope and joy. Tears for a lifetime still ahead of Kaylee.

A lifetime of freedom.

CHAPTER SIXTY

Kaylee

At first I have to push each word I speak out of my mouth. I start and stop and start. But I keep pushing. When I finish telling Sierra the truth about my mom, I think I'm done. And I know Jesus helped me say the truth. But then Sierra asks me if there's anything else I want to tell her.

I hesitate.

I can't tell her the rest.

But . . .

But then I tell her the thing I thought I could never tell anyone. I don't decide to tell her exactly, I just start telling. Jesus helps me with this too. I think He makes the decision for me so I don't have to. And when I start talking about . . . about him, I can't stop.

I feel my face burning as I try to explain things . . . things he did to me. I don't even know how to explain it, but I try. I can't look at Sierra when I talk—I can't look at her eyes. But she stops me several times and puts her hands on the sides of my face, like she does, and holds my face until I look at her. Her hands feel cool on my hot skin.

When my eyes finally meet hers, I see she's crying and she says, "It wasn't your fault. It wasn't your fault, sweetie." She says it over and over until I almost believe her. She tells me other things too. She kisses me on the forehead and tells me she loves me. And she says, "Kaylee, you are so lovable. Do you know that?" Then she says again, "It wasn't your fault, sweetie. It wasn't your fault."

We both blow our noses and then I start talking again.

I can't stop telling until I'm done.

I have to be done.

When I am done, I know. I've said all there is to say.

I sit still and wait. I wait for the scream to start in my head, but . . . it never does. It's quiet in my head. And in my heart.

I'm not afraid any more. I can talk. I can tell the truth.

Sierra knows now.

And Jesus always knew.

Sierra pulls the comforter over us and pulls me close to her. With her arm around my shoulders and my head resting on her, I sigh and close my eyes. I feel so . . . different. I've been in a dark and silent place for so long. And now . . .

Now I'm not. Now it's light.

I stretch, yawn, and then snuggle in closer to Sierra. Maybe . . .