Reva doesn't know

Copyright © 2025 by T.K Wright

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the author, except for brief quotations in reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

Present Day

“Start from the beginning, Reva. The very beginning.”

The therapist’s voice stayed perfectly calm and professional, but every syllable felt like a blade pressed against my skin.

That name, Reva, used to feel like protection. Now it sounded like the echo of every lie I had been forced to live. I sat stiffly in the armchair with my hands clenched tightly in my lap. My nails dug deep crescents into my palms. Tears burned at the corners of my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. Not here. Not in front of her.

I wanted to scream until my throat was raw. I wanted to shatter everything in this carefully arranged room. Instead, I remained frozen in place while my entire world continued to unravel.

“How could I not have known?” The words scraped out of me, hoarse and broken.

The office was beautiful. Sunlight streamed through tall windows and warmed the cream-colored walls. Comfortable furniture and tasteful art created an atmosphere meant to feel safe. To me, it felt like a stage where my life was about to be dissected piece by piece.

I drew in a shaky breath and began.

“We had been driving for hours. My ribs still ached from the fall, and I felt strangely detached from my own body. That was only the beginning.”

...

One Year Earlier

The highway stretched ahead in long ribbons of green and gold as sunlight flickered through the windshield like a warning. An upbeat indie pop song played through the speakers, completely at odds with the heavy knot twisting tighter in my stomach. On paper, this road trip looked like the start of something new. In reality, nothing about my life had ever been simple or safe.

Ozzy hung his head out of the open window beside me. His tongue lolled happily, and his ears flapped wildly in the wind. He was the one bright spot in all of this. I had rescued him from a ditch outside Tacoma, but most days it felt like he had rescued me right back.

“Pass me a water, Reva?” Marta asked. Her eyes remained fixed on the road.

I reached behind her seat for the cooler. My fingers brushed cool plastic. That was when a small folded receipt slipped from her jacket pocket and landed on the seat between us.

I opened it carefully. Temazepam. Strong sleeping pills.

My stomach tightened. I slipped the paper back into her pocket before she could notice and handed her the water bottle without saying a word. I told myself I would ask about it later.

A massive sun-bleached sign appeared on the horizon.

WELCOME TO GARDEN CITY.

Another town. Another name. Another carefully constructed lie.

“This is it,” Marta murmured. Her phone glowed faintly in the cup holder. “The agent says we are three minutes away.”

Three minutes until another new life began.

My mind drifted back to that night last summer, the way it always did when the road grew too quiet.

I could not sleep. Marta’s special tea sat heavy in my stomach, but the nightmares refused to leave me alone. I crept downstairs for water. I wore my hoodie pulled tight and socks that slid silently across the floor. I clutched a guitar pick in my fist like a lucky charm.

Marta’s door stood slightly ajar. Low voices drifted out. Spanish. Furious.

“Lucien, I told you the girl does not have the ledger.”

I froze on the landing. My heart hammered against my ribs.

“I just want what is mine,” a man snarled.

My sock caught on the edge of the rug. I pitched forward.

Hands grabbed me. They were not trying to catch me. They pushed me.

The world flipped end over end.

My shoulder slammed into the third step. My ribs cracked against the bannister. My temple smashed into the newel post. Then everything went black.

I woke on a moving train. My head throbbed violently, and my ribs were wrapped so tightly that I could barely breathe. Marta sat beside me. Her blouse was stained with my blood. She pressed an ice pack gently to my temple.

“Shh. Do not move,” she whispered. Her voice shook. “Lucien’s men broke in. He pushed you. I fought them off. We are heading toward the Canadian border by dawn.”

The story never felt right. I remembered the push. It had been deliberate and violent. Why had we not called the police? Why another midnight train instead of safety?

I rubbed the still-tender spot along my ribs and pressed my forehead against the cool glass as Garden City drew closer. Pastel houses with perfect lawns lined the streets. A glowing diner promised hot food twenty-four hours a day. A gas station sign flickered in the distance. It looked like the kind of place where normal families lived normal lives.

I should have felt relief.

Instead, one question clawed sharper than hunger inside my chest.

What exactly were we running from?

...

The house waited at the end of a quiet street. It was two stories of red brick, half hidden behind curling ivy. The tall fence wrapped the yard like a secret kept close. Marta unlocked the front door and pushed it open.

Inside, the air smelled of fresh paint and wildflowers. Ozzy shot past us and claimed the backyard immediately. He barked happily at nothing in particular.

“This is yours,” Marta announced. She gestured toward the largest bedroom. It had a walk-in closet, a private bathroom, and a huge window that spilt late afternoon light across the floor. The desk already held my favourite pens. Twinkle lights stretched across the ceiling like captured stars. Everything was arranged exactly the way I had described months ago.

It was too perfect.

“You like it?” Marta asked. Her smile did not reach her eyes.

I forced my own smile. “It is great. Thank you.”

This was our tenth move in three years. I had almost nothing to unpack. Just clothes, journals, my guitar, and my keyboard. These were the remnants of a life that refused to stay still.

That night, I lay in bed with Ozzy curled warm against my legs. I strummed soft chords on my guitar. Music had always been the one thing that dulled the constant edge of fear. My ribs still ached from the fall, but the notes helped me breathe.

My journal lay open beside me. Pages filled with half-written lyrics and questions that grew longer every week.

Why did Marta change our last name again?

Why did the man who pushed me say he only wanted what was his?

Why were there sleeping pills hidden in her pocket?

I closed the journal and shoved it under my pillow.

Somewhere deep down, I already knew the truth. Normal was never going to find me in this town.

Starting Monday, I would walk into North Shore High as a senior. After years of homeschooling and hiding behind screens, I would finally step into real life. My only plan was simple. Stay invisible. Survive the year. Then disappear somewhere far away where no one could find us.

Marta handed me her car keys the next morning. “Groceries. I am running on empty after that drive.”

I nodded. “I will handle it.”

Outside, the crickets sang, and the wind moved through the ivy. The night felt heavy with secrets I could not name.

Miles away, beneath the sickly glow of a broken streetlight, a man in a tailored black coat pulled a photograph from his pocket. It showed a girl with striking blue eyes and dark hair standing beside her mother. She looked younger and smaller.

It was me.

He tucked the photo away, slid a revolver into his jacket, and waited.

The storm was coming.