“You can’t make me do anything. This is my daughter’s wedding. I have rights.”
“You have nothing.” Thomas’s voice went cold. “You lost all rights when you hurt that little girl. Now you can walk away quietly, or we can make a scene that ends with the police asking a lot of questions you don’t want to answer.”
One of the other bikers spoke up. “Actually, there might be proof. We’ve spent the last two weeks reaching out to other families in your old neighborhood. Turns out Emily wasn’t the only one.”
My father’s face went gray.
“Sarah Mitchell,” the biker continued. “Jessica Reeves. Amanda Torres. All girls who lived on your street between 1998 and 2010. All willing to talk to police if Emily decides to press charges.”
My legs nearly gave out. Other girls. There were other girls. All these years I’d thought I was alone, thought I was the only one, and there were others.
“You’re lying,” my father said, but his voice had lost its conviction.
“We’re not lying. And you know we’re not.” Thomas gestured to the parking lot. “Leave now. Or this gets a lot worse for you.”
For a long moment, my father stood there. Then something in him seemed to collapse. His shoulders dropped. His face went slack. Without another word, he turned and walked toward his car.
My mother let out a sound I’d never heard before—something between a scream and a sob. She sank to the ground, her expensive mother-of-the-bride dress pooling around her.
I knelt beside her. “Mom, it’s not your fault. He was careful. He made sure you’d never find out.”
“But I should have known. Mothers are supposed to know.”
Thomas approached us slowly. “Ma’am, predators are experts at hiding. They choose victims carefully. They manipulate everyone around them. You didn’t fail your daughter. He failed both of you.”
Jake finally unfroze. He came to me and pulled me into his arms. “Emily, why didn’t you ever tell me?”
“I couldn’t. I was ashamed. I thought you’d think I was damaged. Broken. I thought you wouldn’t want me anymore.”
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