“Come back to me ...
even as a ghost, even as a shadow,
a raven at my door, a scar upon my body—
for it is in my trembling, shrinking heart, I hold the things we thought we lost.”
—Segovia Amil
Soft music filters through the basement hallway. I pace forward, fists clenching at the old, familiar tune. When I enter Room Three, lights blind my eyes.
“Fucking shit.”
I stop in the threshold, holding my forearm over my brows. My muscles tighten, a low thrum stirring in my ears and blending with a song from my past. Unless the sun is down, I’ve hardly set foot outside over the past decade, never mind a fully lit room.
I can’t stand the way it fucks with my head.
“Come, Lucas. Step into our blast from the past.”
“Turn those fucking lights off,” I growl, a mild sweat working beneath my skin.
A second later, the room dims, and I drop my arm.
What the hell is this?
A body is chained to the column, the head hanging low, but it’s the crates in front of it I can’t figure out. I step closer, squinting at the blond-haired girl I faintly recognize, her cheeks wet, her trembling fingers curled around the crate’s bars. When my gaze flicks to the crate beside hers, my chest hammers so hard it’s about to tear through my fucking skin.
Emmy sits curled in a ball. Her arms are tied behind her back, and her head is bent toward her knees. She rocks back and forth, her soft humming in sync with the song.
A snarl rips through me as I lunge forward and yank on the door, but an all-too-familiar padlock keeps it from budging. My grip tightens around the door, and her faint floral scent hits my nostrils. The smell makes me freeze. I watch her slow movements, forward and back, her long hair blanketing most of her body, and for a second I can’t breathe. Her humming seeps into my ears and sits heavily in my chest. I grit my jaw, try to turn away, but my neck is too stiff.
It can’t be her.
It’s not her.
Ikilledher.
“Ask her sister.” Raife’s words are low and taunting.
I’m playing right into his slimy hands, but I glance at the crate beside her anyway. The blonde widens her eyes as she stares from me to Raife.
“Go on,” Raife tells her. “Tell him who yoursisterreally is.”
“Raife. Shut your fucking mouth.” The room goes quiet, nothing but Emmy’s humming and the song playing on a loop. “Frankie. Explain.”
She shakes her head. “I don’t know—I don’t know everything—”
“Start with what you do know. Don’t cut any corners.”
A lump passes through her throat. She flicks her eyes to Emmy then back to me. Her gaze slides down to my clenched fist around the crate.
“Okay,” she whispers. “Okay.”
I nod, my jaw ticking harder with every second she’s not talking.
“I was ten when Emmy showed up. I don’t know, I didn’t understand it. She didn’t have a name, but the men who brought her to us said she was Mama’s niece.”
“What men?”
