The first car pulled into the drive, lighting up the night. There was glass everywhere, up here and down below. Glass and blood and my mother, at the center.

THEY TOOK THE BOTTLE of wine.

They took what was left of the fragments of the mug, sticky from the hot chocolate.

And soon enough, they took my mother—on a stretcher, under a sheet. I didn’t know whether it was the multiple lacerations or the impact. But it didn’t matter. I’d already come to terms with her death.

I watched with an odd detachment from that broken upstairs window.

“You shouldn’t be up here. There’s still glass.” Detective Rigby stood behind me, peering out into the darkness. I should move. Out of this enclosed space, into the open air. But I didn’t feel trapped right then.

“I’ve survived worse,” I said. The truth: I’d survived her. Twenty years earlier, my entire life had been an escape from her control and the stories she told—until they became all I had ever been.

“You sure you’re feeling okay?”

She knew about the drugs, about the pills. But I wasn’t sure what she was asking. I waved her off, then turned over my hands, showed her the small cuts coating my palms. “I can’t even feel this,” I said.

The detective nodded slowly. “We’ll be sure to get those checked out downstairs, yeah?” Then she held up my phone. “By the way, this was on her,” she said. “But I recognized it. I think it’s yours.”

“Yes,” I said, reaching for it. “She took it from me.”

Detective Rigby didn’t quite release her grip. “Good thing you were able to get a call for help out first.”

“I remembered,” I said, “how long it takes you to make it out here. I called as soon as I heard someone outside my house.”

“That was smart,” she said, her face giving away nothing. “You didn’t know it was her?”

“I thought she was dead,” I said, which wasn’t a lie.

She spent a few seconds staring at me before releasing her hold on the phone, severing the connection between us.

She stood beside me, watching the ambulance drive away, lights off.

For a brief moment, I thought about telling her the truth. Saying it for once—that Nathan was right, that the story was not at all what it seemed. That my mother had always been willing to gamble my life. That she’d hurt me once and tried to cover it up, and she would easily do it again.

But that knowledge belonged just to me.

Detective Rigby stepped a little closer to the window so she could peer over the edge. She whistled through her teeth. “Scary scene,” she said. “You could’ve fallen. You’re very lucky.”

“I had to do it,” I said. I was trapped. Four walls and no way out.

“I know you did. I heard your 911 call,” she said. Then she turned to face me. “You could tell quite a story here. About all of this.”

“No, thanks.” Nathan had been arrested for what he had done—I’d fight to keep him in jail, or I’d get a restraining order. Without Sean Coleman, without my mother, I was the only living witness to what had really happened twenty years ago. The story could be only mine, and I wouldn’t give it away this time.

What I said in the next few days about the events surrounding tonight would be the last I ever spoke of it, if I had my way.

You become the stories you tell—I’d learned that much from my mother.

The truest type of story is the kind you tell all alone, to yourself.