Her Obsession (by Sheridan Hartin) novel Chapter 136

Watch Me.

72

Sage

The drive feels too quiet. Even with Naomi humming softly in the back seat and the guys‘ cars trailing behind us, there’s a ringing in my ears that won’t quit, the sound of every thought I’ve ever buried clawing its way back up. I stare out the window, at the neighborhood rolling past, at the too–bright houses and trimmed lawns. Everything looks so painfully normal. And then we turn onto the right street. Their street. The house looks smaller than I remembered from the files with chipped paint, sagging porch, dead plants in the front yard. But what guts me isn’t the house. It’s the window. The one upstairs, with faded blue curtains and a tiny hand pressed against the glass. Diego’s little face peers down, eyes bright and curious, and when he spots me, he waves. Not a nervous wave. Not hesitant. Just happy.

I wave back, my throat tightening, the motion almost mechanical. I swallow hard, force myself to breathe. My hand finds Conner’s. He’s grounding, solid, warm and he squeezes once. No words. He doesn’t need them. The others hang back near the cars, waiting, watching, while I step forward. Each step up that path feels like walking through wet cement. My boots drag. My pulse pounds. For all the blood and chaos I’ve waded through in my life, I’ve never felt so close to breaking. We reach the porch. I raise my hand and knock.

There’s shouting inside, muffled through the door. Miguel’s voice is sharp and impatient. “Lucia! Answer the damn door!”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming, I’m coming!” she yells back.

My stomach twists. It’s too familiar. Too close to every echo I’ve ever tried to drown out. The door swings open. And there she is. Lucia. The woman who gave birth to me, and left me to rot. She looks… tired. The corners of her mouth are pulled down like she’s been scowling her whole life. Her eyes flick from me to Conner, then to the car behind us. Wariness hardens into disdain.

“What do you want?” she snaps.

For a second, I almost forget how to breathe. All the words I’d rehearsed vanish like smoke. I search her face for something, recognition, regret, anything, but there’s nothing. Just irritation.

I swallow once and meet her eyes. “Do you know who I am?”

She scoffs, crossing her arms. “Should I?”

A humorless smile twists my mouth. “Probably,” I say quietly, “considering I came from your body.”

That gets her. She blinks, confusion flickering before realization slams home. Her head tilts, studying me like she’s trying to remember a face from a dream she didn’t like.

“Oh,” she breathes, then laughs a dry, mean little sound. “Which one are you again? We’ve had a lot of kids, honey. Honestly.” She waves a hand like I’m an inconvenience at her doorstep. “What do you want, money? Because I’ve got none.”

Something inside me cracks. Not loud. Just a clean, quiet fracture that I know will never quite mend. Conner’s hand finds the small of my back, steadying me, and I force a smile that feels carved from stone.

“No,” I say softly. “I’m not here for money.”

My voice doesn’t shake, not once, but my chest aches like I’ve been shot.

“I’m here for my brother.”

I don’t give her the room to finish. Lucia’s words scrape across my skin like nails and something in me snaps, not the brittle thing I keep

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Watch Me.

A

wrapped in duct tape and bravado, but something raw and younger that remembers being left on cold floors and in dark corners. She tries to slam the door. I catch it with the heel of my hand and force it open with a shove that Jars the frame. The wood groans under my palm and for a second the house smells like cheap beer and old smoke and everything I hate.

“Get out.” Lucia spits, the contempt loud and sharp. She plants herself in the doorway like that gives her authority, crossing her arms as if that will stop the inevitable. “You think you’re CPS? You think you can just walk in here and take my kid? My money? My life?” Her voice climbs, cruel and practiced.

“I’m not here for your money,” I say, and the words are cool, but my hands are burning into the doorframe. “I’m here for Diego.”

She laughs, ugly and small. “Diego. Right. Like you give a shit. You’re another one of those kids who wants handouts. Go shove off, love.”

Conner’s warm weight falls into me at my back and that steadies the tremor under my skin. He moves up beside me like he’s already read the room; he’s two steps behind, but his presence is two steps ahead of anything I could say. He doesn’t flash a muscle or a threat, just that flat calm that says he’s thought this through.

Something in the kitchen clatters. Miguel appears in the doorway, bleary, eyes narrowing until they land on us. “Who the fuck?” He cuts off when his face recognises Conner, then hardens the way a man hardens when a problem is about to cost him money.

“You that fella from yesterday?” he asks, voice trying for casual and landing on suspicious.

“Yeah,” Conner says, simple and true enough. “We’re here about Diego.”

Miguel’s jaw sets. He nods right to me like I’m a stray dog. “Who gives you the right to walk into my house and take my child? What gives you that right?”

My ribs hurt with the answer. I step forward because words have to be louder than his defense. “You did,” I say. “You gave him away when you sold me off and left. You threw me out like trash.” The sentence lands hard in the kitchen. Time slows the way it does when someone says the thing that changes everything.

“You-” Miguel starts, then his voice folds to smoke.

“You left me,” I continue, because I can’t stop now. “You left me to whoever would take me. For five seconds you called me yours and then you walked away. That ends today. He’s my brother. He’s coming with me. Sign or don’t sign, he’s not staying here.” I say shoving the paperwork down on the coffee table that littered with empty beer bottles.

Lucia’s face drains colour, outrage shifting into something like fear. She opens her mouth, tries to find the right lie, but the sound that comes out is weak. “You can’t just-”

“Watch me,” I say. The room is small and hot and I can see everything, like the dust motes above the table, the low hum of the fridge, the way Diego’s toy car sits like a tiny accusation on the counter. I’m angry in a way that’s dangerous and I am highly aware that my little brother is upstairs and doesn’t need to hear or see anything that might upset him.

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