Chương 6
“Maybe twenty years.”
Stallone exchanged a glance with his bodyguard.
Neither spoke.
Because suddenly the story had changed.
The problem was no longer only what happened inside the house.
There was someone else.
Someone who had been part of Grace’s life.
Someone nobody had introduced.
When Stallone returned home, he found the stepmother sitting at the kitchen table.
He placed the papers down.
Her face changed before he said anything.
“You know.”
It was not a question.
Stallone stared at her.
“Who is she?”
The woman went completely still.
For several seconds, she said nothing.
Then she whispered,
“My sister.”
“My sister.”
The words sat in the kitchen between them.
Stallone did not react immediately.
He had learned a long time ago that the first reaction was often the least useful one.
Anger wanted movement.
Fear wanted answers too quickly.
But the truth usually arrived slowly, through details people wished they had never revealed.
“Your sister has been picking up Grace from school?”
The stepmother looked down.
“Sometimes.”
“Sometimes is not an answer.”
She rubbed her forehead.
“She helped.”
“Without telling me?”
“You weren’t around.”
The sentence came out before she could stop it.
The moment it left her mouth, she looked like she regretted it.
Stallone leaned against the counter.
“So this was easier?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
She looked toward the window.
“Because I was embarrassed.”
The answer surprised him.
“Embarrassed about what?”
“That I needed help.”
The anger in him shifted.
Not disappeared.
Shifted.
He knew that feeling.
The pride that made people hide problems until they became bigger than the original problem.
But this was different.
A child had been involved.
“Who is your sister?”
The woman hesitated.
“Rachel.”
“Where is she?”
“At her house.”
“Does she know we found out?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
The stepmother looked away.
“Because she thinks everything is fine.”
That bothered him.
Not because he believed Rachel was responsible.
Because it meant two adults had created a situation around Grace without understanding the full picture.
“Tell me everything.”
The woman stayed quiet.
For a few seconds, Stallone thought she might refuse.
Then she stood and walked to a drawer.
She pulled out a folder.
Inside were papers.
School notices.
Schedules.
Notes.
Things that should have been ordinary.
Things that suddenly looked important.
“My sister lost her daughter years ago,” she said.
Stallone looked up.
“She had a little girl.”
“When?”
“Before I met you.”
The woman sat down.
“She was five.”
The room became quieter.
“She got sick.”
Stallone did not interrupt.
“There was nothing anyone could do.”
The stepmother touched the edge of the folder.
“After that, Rachel changed.”
“How?”
“She became obsessed with helping children.”
Stallone looked at the papers again.
“Helping?”
“Yes.”
“That’s what you call secretly picking up my daughter?”
The woman flinched.
“I know how it sounds.”
“It sounds like something you hid.”
“I know.”
There was no argument.
That made it more difficult.
“Why would she do that?”
The stepmother swallowed.
“Because Grace reminded her of her daughter.”
The answer created a different kind of silence.
Not relief.
Not understanding.
Concern.
Stallone had spent enough time around people to know that grief could make someone kind.
It could also make someone cross boundaries they did not recognize.
“Does Grace know her?”
“Yes.”
“How well?”
The woman looked down.
“She likes her.”
That was the part Stallone feared.
Because children trusted easily.
They trusted people who remembered their favorite snack.
People who brought them books.
People who sat beside them when they were scared.
Trust was not always built through big things.
Sometimes it was built through ordinary moments.
“When did this start?”
“About six months ago.”
“Six months?”
The woman nodded.
“I was overwhelmed.”
“With what?”
She looked at him.
“With everything.”
It was not a satisfying answer.
But it was honest.
“Grace was having nightmares.”
Stallone’s expression changed.
“What nightmares?”
“She would wake up crying.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
The woman looked hurt.
“Because every time I tried to talk about problems, you fixed them.”
He stared at her.
“What does that mean?”
“It means you would send someone.”
“It means you would arrange something.”
“It means everything became a solution.”
She paused.
“And sometimes I just needed someone to sit there.”
The words affected him because they touched something he did not want to admit.
He was good at solving.
He was less good at staying.
He had built a life where action was easier than vulnerability.
But Grace did not need a man who could solve every problem.
She needed a father who noticed the problems before they became impossible to ignore.
“What kind of nightmares?”
The stepmother looked at the floor.
“She would wake up and ask if people leave when they get tired.”
Stallone felt the air leave his chest.
The same question.
The same fear.
The drawing.
The door.
He looked toward the hallway.
“She said that?”
The woman nodded.
“I thought it was because of the divorce.”
“What divorce?”
She froze.
Then looked confused.
“What?”
“You said divorce.”
The color drained slightly from her face.
“I…”
She stopped.
Stallone watched carefully.
A mistake.
A word said too quickly.
A door opening.
“Whose divorce?”
The woman looked away.
“My parents.”
“When?”
“Years ago.”
“Before we met?”
“Yes.”
Something did not fit.
He could feel it.
Not because he knew the answer.
Because people rarely became uncomfortable over harmless details.
“Rachel’s daughter.”
The stepmother looked at him.
“What about her?”
“Was Grace’s fear connected to that?”
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
“I don’t understand.”
“Your sister lost her daughter.”
“Yes.”
“And now she spends time with Grace.”
“Yes.”
“Did anyone ever think that maybe she was trying to replace someone?”
The woman looked angry.
Not defensive.
Protective.
“She would never hurt Grace.”
“I didn’t say she would.”
“But you’re thinking it.”
“I’m thinking everyone involved has been making decisions without telling me.”
That ended the argument.
Because it was true.
The next morning, Stallone met Rachel.
May you like
Not at the house.
Not around Grace.
