Nine Years Ago
The early evening sun had started to sink behind the trees, washing the two-lane county road in golden light. John's truck rumbled to a stop behind Lilly's beat-up Corolla, hazard lights blinking like a nervous heartbeat.
She was sitting on the hood, arms crossed, looking simultaneously annoyed and bored, her sunglasses pushed up into her hair.
John stepped out, toolbox in hand.
"You break this thing on purpose just to get me out here?"
Lilly grinned. "Busted. What can I say? I missed you."
He smirked. "I should've let it catch fire."
"Wow. The gratitude is overwhelming."
He walked around to the front of the car, giving the vehicle a once-over. Something caught his eye—scratches along the passenger door, a fresh dent near the rear wheel well, and the side mirror was slightly out of place. He frowned.
"Lilly," he said slowly, "what happened here?"
She didn't look at him. "Probably a trash can. Or a shopping cart. Who knows."
"Come on," he muttered, crouching down to examine the damage. "This looks like someone hit you."
"I said it was nothing."
He glanced up at her, but she was already turning away, pretending to study a bird in the distance.
Letting out a sigh, John popped the hood and got to work.
"So what happened before it died?"
She leaned over the front fender, arms still crossed. "It made a coughing noise—like a hiccup—and then died. I coasted to the side before it completely gave out."
Ten minutes of poking around revealed the issue—a loose connection to the alternator. Nothing fatal.
John tightened the bolts, tapped the casing, and wiped his hands on a rag.
"Try it now."
She slid into the driver's seat, turned the key, and the engine sputtered back to life.
"God, I love you," she said, stepping out again.
"You love that I work for free."
"Well, yeah."
He raised an eyebrow. "You hungry?"
Lilly tilted her head. "What, like actual food?"
"Yes, actual food. No, I didn't burn it. Come over."
She smiled. "How can I say no to the guy who just saved my life?"
"You can't."
They drove separately to his house, and soon enough, they were sitting across from each other at John's tiny kitchen table, eating chicken and roasted potatoes under the soft glow of a mismatched light fixture.
"Not bad," Lilly said around a mouthful.
"High praise."
"Seriously. I had low expectations."
"Charming."
She took a sip of water, then gave him a mischievous grin. "So. Julia."
John rolled his eyes. "Don't start."
"I'm just saying," she said, stabbing a potato with her fork, "I saw her name pop up on your phone. Who is she?"
"We've gone out a few times."
"Do you like her?"
"I guess."
"John."
"I do like her," he admitted. "She's... easy. Not in that way," he added quickly when Lilly raised a brow. "Just easy to be around. She doesn't press too hard."
"And you're dragging your feet because…"
"I don't know if it's serious yet."
Lilly leaned back in her chair, studying him. "You always do this."
"Do what?"
"Hold everyone at arm's length. You've got a good thing, and you're already looking for the exit."
John frowned. "That's not fair."
"It is," she said gently. "You don't let people love you. You pretend you're just 'fine on your own,' but I know the truth. You're scared."
He didn't respond right away.
Then, quietly, he said, "I don't want to turn out like Mom and Dad."
Her expression softened instantly.
"I think about them a lot," he added. "How they were just... at war all the time. Plates flying. Screaming in the walls. One of them always walking out. Always blaming the other."
"I remember hiding in the closet with you," she whispered. "You held my hand so tight, I thought you'd break it."
"You told me a knock-knock joke to make me laugh."
"It was a bad one."
"It worked."
They shared a quiet smile. A moment of peace.
Lilly reached across the table and laid her hand over his. "We're not them, Johnny. We never were. And you deserve to let yourself feel loved."
John swallowed hard. "You do too."
Before she could respond, her phone buzzed on the table.
The screen lit up: Mark.
John caught the name just before she snatched it up and turned it face down.
"You don't have to answer," he said carefully.
"I do," she muttered, standing abruptly.
Her posture had shifted. Rigid. Eyes downcast. The laughter from minutes before was gone like it had never existed.
John stood too. "Lilly—"
"I have to go," she cut him off. She grabbed her bag, slinging it over her shoulder. "Thanks for dinner."
He moved toward her. "You okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine," she said too quickly.
"Let me drive you—"
"No. I've got it."
She kissed his cheek, then headed for the door.
"Text me when you get home," he said as she opened it.
She paused. "I will."
But he wasn't sure she meant it.
And as her car pulled away, taillights disappearing into the dusk, John stood in the kitchen alone, surrounded by silence that had never felt so loud.
Something was wrong.
And he knew it.
He just didn't know how much time he had left to stop it.
Present Day
The rhythmic clang of a wrench against steel echoed through the garage, a steady cadence interrupted only by the soft hum of the shop radio and the occasional creak of old hinges in the ceiling above. It was nearly midday, and the light filtering through the high windows gave everything a washed-out, dreamlike hue.
John was elbows-deep in the engine bay of a '99 Silverado, sleeves rolled up, grease coating the backs of his hands and half his forearms. The bolts were stubborn. The engine was temperamental. But none of it demanded enough of his brain to keep the memories at bay.
His thoughts drifted—had been drifting all morning—back to Sarah.
She was upstairs now. Probably curled up under that fuzzy blanket he bought her, maybe reading one of the magazines Clyde always left lying around. She'd been quiet since breakfast. Not unusually so, just… thoughtful. Like she was trying to hold something in that threatened to spill over.
John tightened another bolt, wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, and leaned back. He stared at the open hood, the exposed heart of the truck ticking in faint warmth.
He couldn't shake the thought: Am I helping her escape the same fate?
The same kind of trap that Lilly had been caught in—charmed, controlled, crushed?
His jaw tightened.
He remembered Lilly's eyes when she'd lied to him. The way they shifted just slightly to the side, the practiced change in her voice, the sudden silence that filled the space after. Sarah had that same silence sometimes.
I saw the bruises, and I still walked away.I gave her space when maybe she needed someone to kick down the damn door.
John exhaled sharply through his nose and leaned over the engine again, trying to focus on the bolts.
But guilt, as always, was a relentless ghost.
He'd told himself a thousand times that he couldn't have known how bad it was with Mark. That Lilly had chosen to keep things from him. That she was an adult, making her own decisions.
But all that logic didn't help at three in the morning when her laugh echoed in his head and her number sat cold and dead in his phone.
Now Sarah's here. Same bruises. Same weight in her eyes. Same silence.
The wrench slipped from his hand and clattered to the floor.
"Shit," he muttered, bending to pick it up.
He ran a hand through his hair, smearing grease through the strands without caring.
He didn't know much about Sarah. Not really. Just fragments: the way her hands trembled when she thought no one was looking. The way she flinched at certain sounds. How she always seemed to be bracing for something that never came.
But he knew enough.
He knew someone had hurt her. That she'd been left to carry that weight alone.
He knew that whatever man had done it probably still felt entitled to her silence.
And he knew—deep in his gut—that if he didn't help her find some kind of peace, some kind of exit, he'd never forgive himself.
You're not her brother, a voice in the back of his mind said.
But he was something. A witness, at the very least. A man who had seen this story play out once already—and buried its ending.
And yeah, maybe he was older than Sarah. He figured there was a good ten-year gap between them, maybe more. It wasn't something he'd said out loud, but he'd thought about it. The differences in their lives. Their experience. What she'd already been through despite how young she still looked.
He wasn't trying to be a savior. He wasn't trying to play hero.
But he sure as hell wasn't going to be a bystander again.
He leaned on the edge of the car and stared out toward the shop door, barely noticing the way the radio fuzzed into static for a moment before returning.
Could I have saved Lilly?Can I save Sarah?
The questions circled like crows above a field, waiting to settle.
He heard soft footsteps overhead. Floorboards shifting.
She was awake.
He wiped his hands and set the wrench down, the sound ringing hollow on the workbench.
There was no simple answer. No script to follow. But maybe—just maybe—this time, he'd act before it was too late.
And maybe, in doing so, he could quiet the ghosts just a little.