The tension in the air was suffocating. I felt as though the very atmosphere had turned into a thin, fragile pane of glass, stretched too tight, ready to shatter at any moment. My heart pounded in my chest, so loud I was sure Jason could hear it, even from outside. My fingers clung to the counter, knuckles white, as my mind raced.
What was he doing here? How did he find me? More importantly, why was he looking at me like that? As if he knew something I didn't, as if he'd already figured out the things I'd been too scared to admit to myself.
I couldn't tear my gaze away from him. His eyes, once warm and comforting, now seemed distant, unreadable. But still, there was that weight—an understanding that passed between us, a knowing that I couldn't shake, no matter how hard I tried. Something was different.
Jason took another step closer, his feet moving slower now, the crunch of the gravel beneath his boots almost too loud in the silence. He didn't seem to be in a rush. As if the tension wasn't unbearable enough, his calmness was maddening. Didn't he understand what this felt like? What I was facing?
"Janica," his voice came through the window, low, barely audible over the sound of my pulse. His gaze never left mine. "We need to talk."
I couldn't breathe. I couldn't move. The weight of everything—the documents, the truth, the fear—pressed down on me until I thought I might break.
Denise's voice cut through the moment, sharp and insistent. "Don't go to him, Janica. Not yet."
But I wasn't listening. I couldn't. I couldn't tear my eyes away from him.
My mouth went dry, and I found myself whispering his name, as if doing so would bridge the distance between us, as if it could make everything okay again. "Jason."
He stopped in his tracks, standing there for a moment, as if weighing something. He didn't move. Didn't speak. He just stood there, the silence stretching long between us.
Then, finally, he took a step forward, closer to the door. His eyes flickered, and I saw a flicker of something I couldn't quite place—was it regret? Was it pain? Or was it something deeper, something darker?
I opened my mouth to say something, anything, but no words came. What was there to say? What could I possibly say after everything?
I swallowed hard, nerves tight. "Aren't you afraid, Jason? After everything?"
He blinked, the question catching him off guard. Then his lips curved into a faint, tired smile. "I have security outside. They can't come in… but they're close. I didn't come here on orders. I came for something important. Something I think… you have."
Jason took another step closer. "Janica," he said, voice low but steady. "I'm not here to hurt you. I… I have something you need to see."
My stomach dropped. "What are you talking about?"
He hesitated, then pulled something from inside his coat—wrapped in a plastic sleeve, edges worn. My breath caught.
My journal.
My mother's journal.
"You—" I choked. "You took it?"
Jason's expression tightened. "I didn't mean to do it like that. But I had to see it. And now… now I think you need to see what's inside."
Jason turned and nodded toward the safehouse, signaling me to follow him inside.
The safe house was quiet, the air thick with uncertainty. We all sat down in the dimly lit living room, the old furniture creaking under the weight of our silence. Jason's presence filled the room like a storm waiting to break. Denise sat across from me, her eyes narrowing as she watched Jason closely, her protective instinct kicking in.
Jason pulled out the journal from his coat, the plastic sleeve now removed. He held it like it was fragile, as though it could fall apart in his hands. His eyes flickered to mine, searching for any sign of hesitation before he slowly placed it on the table between us.
I could feel my heart racing again, faster this time. The journal. My mother's journal. But why was he showing it to me now?
"You need to see this," Jason said, his voice low and steady.
Denise leaned forward, curiosity burning in her eyes, but she remained silent. Jason opened the journal to the first page, then flipped to a section further along, carefully pausing on a single page. He turned it toward me, and my fingers hovered over it before I could bring myself to look.
I don't know what I expected, but it wasn't this. The page was yellowed, the paper fragile with age, but the handwriting was unmistakable. My handwriting.
But it wasn't the current me. The letters were larger, more careless, like the scribbles of a younger me trying to make sense of a world I didn't yet understand. I stared at it for a long moment, and then my gaze shifted to Jason, who was watching me closely, his expression unreadable.
I looked back at the page, slowly reading the words, my throat tightening with each passing sentence:
Mama told me not to talk to the man with the grey shoes again. She said I should close the curtains if I see him coming. I don't like him. He smells like smoke and always stands too close, like he wants to whisper but his voice is too loud.
He came yesterday. I was coloring on the floor. Mama jumped and told me to hide in the cupboard under the sink. She said not to make a sound, not even a whisper. I did what she said. I saw her feet from the crack. She didn't open the door for him. But he kept knocking.
I peeked through the window when she wasn't looking. He smiled. But not the kind of smile I like. His eyes didn't smile with his mouth. One side of his face looked stiff, like it didn't want to move. I think that's why Mama's hands were shaking.
Later, I heard Mama in the kitchen saying, "He said he'll come again. He always does."
I made her tea after. I put too much sugar, but she drank it anyway. I gave her a hug and she didn't let go for a long time.
I wanted to tell her I'm not afraid. But I was.
So I drew a picture of a lion next to my bed. Lions protect people.