The plane ride home was a blur. Layla sat by the window, silent and pale, her hands twisting in her lap. Bill stared straight ahead, jaw set. Mike and I exchanged quiet looks, grief and anger wrestling behind every word we didn’t say.
At our house, I called our parents. They arrived within the hour. I’d never seen my mother’s hands shake like that.
Layla stood in the living room, flanked by the people she’d lied to for years.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “I thought I was saving him. I see now… I was saving myself.”
My father’s voice was hard. “You took our grandson and you let your sister mourn him all these years.”
“I was saving myself.”
“I know,” Layla said, shoulder slumping.
That’s when the knock came.
***
Two officers stood on the porch.
“Ma’am, we need to speak to a Ms Layla,” one of them said.
Layla’s eyes darted around the room, panic blooming. My father stepped forward, shoulders squared, voice shaking but sure.
“I called them,” he said. “Someone had to.”
Layla looked gutted, staring at our father in disbelief.
“Dad, please —”
He cut her off.
Two officers stood on the porch.
see continuation on next page
