She knew it now, took a half step backward. He looked as if someone had physically struck him. His jaw worked, his mouth opening and closing before he managed to speak again. "Where is she?" Amara's throat closed. She'd answered this question a thousand times in her head, but saying it out loud never got easier.
"She died," she said. "Three years ago. Cancer." Her voice broke. She forced herself to continue. She didn't have insurance.
Couldn't afford treatment. "By the time they..." She stopped, unable to finish. Daniel closed his eyes. When he opened them again, they were wet. "I didn't know," he said.
And there was so much pain in those three words. "Jesus Christ, I didn't know. "I should have—I should have checked on her. I should have." "She didn't want people to know," Amara said quietly.
"She said she didn't need pity. It wouldn't have been pity." His voice was fierce, now angry. "She saved my life. Do you understand that when I was 19 years old and ready to drop out because I couldn't afford to eat, she fed me? When I got evicted, she let me sleep on her couch.
"When professors tried to fail me for biased reasons, she fought them. She..." He stopped and composed himself. "I owe everything I have to her. Everything." Behind him, Chelsea, the production assistant, appeared in the doorway, looking nervous.
"Mr. Carter, we didn't know you were coming down to the contestant lounge. Do you need everyone out?" "Everyone out now," Daniel said without looking at her. Chelsea blinked. "Sir?"
His voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the room like a knife. Chelsea's eyes went wide. She glanced at the contestants, Madison and her father, the boy with the guitar, the girl getting her makeup done, then back at Daniel. "But the contestants need to—" "I don't care," Daniel said, still not looking at her. "Clear the room now." Chelsea nodded quickly and started hurrying people toward the door.
Madison shot a confused, slightly scared look back at Amara as her father guided her out. The others followed, whispering to each other. Within 30 seconds, the lounge was empty except for Amara and Daniel. Daniel grabbed a chair, pulled it over, and sat down heavily. He took off his glasses again, rubbed his eyes, put them back on.
"Tell me everything," he said. Amara told him. She told him about the hospital, about sitting in that too-white hallway at 14 years old, listening to nurses talk in low voices about insurance coverage and treatment options that weren't really options at all. About watching her grandmother die because the system decided her life wasn't worth saving. She told him about losing the apartment, about the landlord changing the locks while she stood in the hallway with a backpack and a guitar, about that first night on the street cold and scared and completely alone.