I force a small smile. “It’s Christmas,” I murmur. “It’s kind of my thing.”
He laughs and turns back toward the kids, already shouting something about who gets the last candy cane. The noise swells again—safe, happy, normal.
But when I glance up, Cast is watching me from across the room. He’s leaning against the mantel, a mug of cocoa in his hand, his expression unreadable.
Our eyes meet, and something flickers there—suspicion, concern, instinct. He studies me for a beat too long.
I drop my gaze, move to the counter, and busy myself with pouring another cup of cocoa. The liquid trembles in the mug as I lift it, my hand unsteady.
The warmth of the fire brushes my skin. The room hums with soft music, laughter, the soft clinking of ornaments.
And I stand there in the middle of it all—smiling, nodding, pretending—while the shredded image of my painting and that photograph burn behind my eyelids.
And I just stand there, holding my mug, pretending the world hasn’t just cracked wide open at my feet.
11
WILLOW
The voice is small,thready, like it’s trying not to cry. “Mommy…”
For a second, I think I’m dreaming. The sound doesn’t fit the quiet hum of the house—the heater kicking on, the faint tick of the clock. Then it comes again, softer.
“Mommy…”
My eyes snap open. The clock glows2:17 a.m.The room is dim, air cold where the blanket’s slipped away.
At the foot of the bed stands Penny—barefoot, pale against the dark, her blanket dragging along the rug. Her curls stick to her forehead, cheeks flushed a sickly red.
“Baby?” My voice is rough, still heavy with sleep. “What’s wrong?”
Her lip trembles. “My tummy hurts.”
Sleep evaporates. I throw off the blanket and start toward her—but she sways, lifts a hand to her mouth, and gags.
“Penny—!”
She vomits before I can reach her. It splatters down her pajamas, onto her feet. She gasps, horrified, and starts to cry.
I drop to the floor, catching her shoulders. “It’s okay, sweetheart.” My pulse hammers, but my voice stays even. “You’re okay.”
“I’m sorry,” she sobs, shaking. “Mommy, I didn’t mean to?—”
“Oh, baby.” I pull her close, not caring about the mess. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Her skin burns against mine—clammy, slick. I touch her forehead and jerk back.
“Damien,” I whisper. “Wake up.”
The bedsprings creak. “What’s going on?” he mumbles.
“She’s burning up.” I press my palm to her again. “She’s so hot.”
Damien’s instantly awake, crouching beside us. His hand brushes Penny’s hair, eyes sharpening. “Hey, sweetheart. We got you.”
“It hurts,” she whimpers.
“Where?” I ask.
