The Woman on the Road
The next morning, using information Gideon gathered through discreet inquiries, I drove alone to a modest apartment complex on the outskirts of town. The paint on the stair railings was slightly chipped, and potted plants lined the narrow balconies like small attempts to bring life to the place.
Maren opened the door with one of the twins resting on her hip while the other slept in a portable crib behind her. Surprise flickered across her face, but she didn’t look afraid.
For a moment we simply stood there, the distance between us heavier than the space itself.
“Ryan,” she said softly.
Her voice still carried the warmth I remembered, though now it was touched by exhaustion.
“I didn’t know how to reach you,” I began, aware that explanations sounded empty even as I spoke. “I learned the truth about what happened.”
She studied my face carefully.
“It took you a long time.”
There was no accusation in her voice—only quiet acknowledgment.
She stepped aside and invited me in. I noticed how neat the small apartment was despite its simplicity, how carefully the babies’ blankets and bottles were arranged.
“Why didn’t you tell me about them?” I asked gently, glancing toward the crib.
She adjusted the baby against her shoulder.
“I tried that night,” she said. “You wouldn’t let me finish.”
Her words settled between us with a finality that needed no elaboration.
