They lost custody when I was four, there was toomuch partying, too many strangers passed out on the floor, and not enough food in the fridge even though they had money to burn. I still remember the flashing red and blue lights outside our apartment. I didn’t cry when they took me.
My aunt was pregnant with Daisy when she took me in, she didn’t even hesitate. She made space in their small house and in her big, soft heart, and never made me feel like a burden.
I was just as important as Daisy and just as loved.
My chest tightens thinking about it, about them, about everything they gave me and everything they lost. After my uncle died in a car crash, we broke, but we broke together. Grieved together. Three women holding onto each other when the world was trying to tear us apart.
And that night, the one that changed everything, Daisy asked me to go with her to a party. “Just a college party!” she said. A party with loud music, cheap drinks, boys who wore too much cologne, everything I hated so I said, “Maybe next time.”
I was working nights at the pharmacy back then, barely sleeping, barely functioning, and all I wanted was to curl up in bed with a book and rest.
When she came home, my aunt screamed so loud I ran down the stairs, and the second Isaw her, I knew I’d made a mistake that couldn’t be undone: I wasn’t there, and now Daisy lives with pain I’ll never be able to erase.
This is my fault.
I can’t give her back what they stole from her, but I can give her justice. Even if it kills me, and if I’m caught, I pray it’s only after I’ve killed them all.
It’s well past lunch when I finally pull into the driveway.
I don’t remember most of the drive home, just the knot in my stomach, the burn behind my eyes from all the memories of my family, and the echo of Henry’s screams still tucked somewhere in the back of my mind.
The knife’s still missing, but I can’t bring myself to care anymore. I used gloves, there were no prints, so if someone finds it, they won’t link it to me.
I hope.
My body moves on autopilot as I step into the house and lock the door behind me. Everything feels quieter now.
I kick off my shoes, shrug off my jacket, and head to the kitchen. Tea. I need tea. Chamomile, just the way Auntie used to make.
I grab the kettle, start filling it with water. I turn to the counter next to the stove and my breath stops. Theknifeis sitting on the counter, right there, in the center, as if it never left.
My stomach lurches. I’m hallucinating! There’s no way. It wasn’t here before; I tore this house apart.
I don’t touch it. I just stare, certain that if I move too fast it might leap off the counter and bury itself in my throat. I notice that it’s clean, spotless, actually. Not a trace of blood, not a smear of flesh, but it’s definitely mine. There is a little scratch on the handle where I slipped cutting into pork during one of those online butchering tutorials. Is that…? Is that a piece of paper underneath it?
Shit.
I inch closer, carefully, like the damn thing is alive. My whole body stiffens up, as if any movement might trigger the damn inanimate object. I nudge the knife with the edge of my pinky, just enough to slide the paper out.
My eyes never leave the blade.
I unfold the note with trembling fingers, and there is one line printed.
“Next time.Clean better.”
And just below that a symbol of an eye, stamped with a name: Eidolon.
Who the hell is Eidolon?
Oh fuck—
I rush to the door, fling it open, and scan the hallway. Nothing. No one, just silence and stale air. I turn back and kneel; the lock looks fine. No obvious scratches, no busted frame, but who am I kidding? This lock is old as fuck. It’s covered in marks. Hell, I’ve probably made most of them myself!
I shut the door again, slower this time, and check everything. Kitchen. Bathroom. Hall closet. I dart to the window, locked, just as I left it. I live on the third floor with no fire escape, no balcony. So unless someone got bit by a radioactive spider, there’s no way in from the outside.
Everything looks untouched. The bed is as messy as I left it, and the rug is still crooked. Nothing’s moved, except for that fucking knife, still sitting on the counter.
I walk toward it slowly, my teeth grinding, and glare down at it.
