Page 264 of Breaking Rosalind

“It’s complicated.”

“How?”

“How much do you remember from the time before I took you away?”

She shakes her head. “Not much.”

“That woman I killed was…” I inhale, forcing down a surge of emotion. “Long before you were born, it was just me and my mother. My birth father died, and she married a very dangerous man.”

Miranda’s eyes widen, her lips parting. “So, we’re not full sisters?”

“No.” My throat thickens.

“That man was a monster. He liked…” I turn my head to the ceiling, my eyes stinging with unshed tears. “He was an abuser.”

“Like a groomer?” she whispers.

“Yes,” I say, my voice barely audible.

This is excruciating. I wanted to protect Miranda from my trauma. She’s too young to be burdened with the gruesome reality of the past, but after last night, she deserves to know the truth.

“So, you became an assassin to kill him?” she asks, her voice trembling.

“Yes… No.” I gulp. “Miri, I don’t know how to say it.”

“Just say the word,” she says, her hands reaching to squeeze mine.

Miranda’s grip on me is the only thing anchoring me to the present, but the weight of my secret pushes down on my chest like a boulder. I force in a deep breath through trembling lips.

“My mother didn’t want to listen when I told her about the abuse. She had finally found a man to take care of us and wasn’t going to let anything stand in her way.”

“And that’s why you killed her?” Miranda asks.

I squeeze my eyes shut, loosening tears that roll down my cheeks. It would be easy to end the conversation and say yes. To let Miranda believe I took out her parents on a revenge quest, but she deserves to know the truth.

“Rosa?”

“He got me pregnant,” I say on an exhale. “Nobody listened to me, but when I started to show, they locked me away.”

“Oh my god,” she shrieks. “Did you have the baby?”

“Yes,” I sob.

She throws her arms around my neck and hugs me tight. “Rosa, I’m so sorry. I wouldn’t have given you such a hard time if I’d known they were so evil.”

It hasn’t registered. Not through her words of comfort. Not through her sympathetic tears. Not through her assurances that she’ll help me find the baby.

“Miri—”

“Was it a girl or a boy?” she asks.

“Miri, stop,” I rasp.

She pulls back, and stares at me though wide, tear-filled eyes. Several heartbeats pass before she says, “Rosa?”

“The baby was you, Miri.”

The room falls silent, and her eyes round with shock. Color leeches from her pretty features, and her grip on my hands falls loose. She tries to speak, but all that escapes her lips are a pained moan.