9
Grace.
Three weeks.
That’s how long it’s been since I left Daniel’s house.
Seventeen days, to be exact. But who’s counting?
Me.
I counted the seconds at first. Every tick of the clock in my quiet new apartment. Every empty morning without Sophie’s laugh echoing down the hallway. Every phantom touch I still felt on my skin. Every dream where Daniel said don’t go a little sooner.
I’d found a job quickly at a daycare on the other side of the city, small and cheerful, with crayon-colored walls and kids who liked to tug on my jeans while asking about dinosaurs. The pay wasn’t great and the hours were long. But it kept my hands busy.
I told myself I was doing the right thing, that I’d protected a little girl from the kind of chaos I knew too well, that I’d spared Daniel the legal nigh
