“From abusive situations, dangerous men, traffickers. We call it rehabilitation, but it’s more than that. We move them, give them new lives. My nights are missions, not meetings.” He glanced at the clock, the ticking second hand a metronome to his confession.
A cold draft brushed my cheek as the kitchen door clicked shut behind us. The room seemed to shrink, the ordinary hum of the refrigerator now a distant roar.
“Why hide it? Why the lies?” My hands clenched around the edge of the table.
He leaned in, his breath warm, eyes pleading. “If anyone knows who we are, the people we help are exposed. They could be killed. I couldn’t risk them.” A tremor ran through his voice, raw and urgent.
“And you thought I wouldn’t find out?” I snapped, the kitchen lights flickering, casting shadows that danced like the secrets we both held.
