PART THREEChapter Twenty-Nine: The Rule
Margret had waited for the right moment.
Not when Lucia first mentioned the boy.Not when she came home later than usual.Not when Margret's fear first took root.
She waited until the night her hands shook so badly she nearly dropped her glass of water.
Lucia noticed immediately.
"Mama?" she asked, rising from the floor where she'd been sorting laundry. "What's wrong?"
Margret motioned for her to sit. Her face was pale, drawn tight with something deeper than pain. Fear, yes—but also urgency.
"There's something you need to understand," Margret said quietly.
Lucia obeyed, sitting across from her, spine straight. She had learned to listen closely when her mother spoke in that tone.
"I've told you before that we're hiding," Margret continued. "But I don't think I ever explained what that really means."
Lucia nodded slowly. "You said we had to be careful."
"That's not enough anymore," Margret said. Her voice trembled, and she hated that Lucia could hear it. "Careful means rules. One rule in particular."
She leaned forward, eyes locking onto her daughter's.
"Never show anyone where we live."
Lucia blinked. "I wouldn't—"
"Never," Margret repeated sharply. "Not a friend. Not a classmate. Not someone who seems kind. Not someone who says they want to help."
Lucia's chest tightened. She thought of Eli instantly—and guilt flared hot and sudden.
Margret saw the flicker in her eyes.
"Have you?" she asked softly.
Lucia shook her head quickly. "No. I swear. I haven't."
Margret exhaled slowly, relief mixing with dread. "Good. Because if someone finds us, Lucia… they won't come to talk. They won't come to ask questions."
She swallowed hard.
"They'll come to take."
Lucia's voice dropped to a whisper. "Who?"
Margret closed her eyes.
"Your father."
The word landed heavily between them.
Lucia stiffened. She had heard his name rarely, always spoken with caution, always followed by silence.
"I thought… I thought he stopped looking," Lucia said.
Margret opened her eyes again, and what Lucia saw there frightened her more than any raised voice ever could.
"Men like your father never stop," Margret said. "They wait."
She shifted slightly, pain flashing across her face. Lucia reached out instinctively, but Margret continued before she could be distracted.
"David has power. Money. People who owe him favors. If he finds you—" She stopped herself, breath hitching. "If he finds us, you will not be safe."
Lucia's hands clenched in her lap. "He's my father."
Margret's laugh was short, humorless. "No. He's a man who would rather see me dead than exposed."
Lucia's throat tightened. "Why?"
Margret hesitated. This was the part she had avoided for years.
"Because you know too much," she said finally. "Even if you don't realize it yet."
Lucia frowned. "I don't understand."
"You will," Margret replied. "And when you do, it will make you dangerous to him."
Silence settled thickly between them.
Lucia thought of the stories she half-remembered. The whispered arguments. The night they fled. The way Margret flinched at unfamiliar footsteps.
"Is that why we keep moving?" Lucia asked.
"Yes."
"Is that why I can't have friends over?"
"Yes."
"Is that why you panic when I'm late?"
Margret nodded, tears shining in her eyes now. "Yes. All of it."
Lucia's voice cracked. "So what happens if someone finds our house?"
Margret reached for her hand, gripping it tightly despite the tremor in her fingers. "Then everything we've fought for ends."
Lucia held her mother's gaze, finally understanding the weight of the rule—not as control, but as survival.
"I won't tell anyone," Lucia said firmly.
Margret searched her face. "Not even if they seem lonely."
Lucia swallowed. "I won't."
"Not even if they remind you of yourself."
Lucia hesitated—just a fraction too long.
Margret saw it.
Her grip tightened. "Lucia."
"I won't," Lucia repeated, more quietly now.
Margret nodded, but unease twisted in her chest. Instinct told her something was already shifting—connections forming beyond her control.
Her body was failing her.
And the world was noticing her daughter.
That night, Margret dreamed of doors opening.
She dreamed of footsteps on the stairs.Of voices she recognized.Of Lucia calling her name and not being heard.
She woke gasping, sweat soaking the sheets, heart racing.
Lucia was asleep beside her bed, curled protectively on the floor like a guard who refused to leave her post.
Margret watched her daughter's face in the dim light, memorizing it—the strength, the softness, the quiet bravery.
"I'm running out of time," Margret whispered into the darkness.
The rule had been spoken.
The warning delivered.
But rules only mattered if they were never tested.
And outside their small, fragile world, forces were already moving—slowly, patiently—waiting for a single mistake.