She presses her lips together, perhaps realizing she’s said too much. Her gaze darts briefly to the door before settling back on me.
Happy? My heart tightens at the word. Why? What’s changed? Questions churn in my mind, but before I can voice them, Elijah pipes up from his spot near the rug.
“Mommy! I caught another one!” He beams at me, holding up the iPad like a trophy. His eyes finally drift to Kayla, lighting up with excitement. “TíaKayla!”
Kayla’s face softens instantly. She crouches down, her hands automatically smoothing Elijah’s shirt. “Si, pequeño. Did you catch the big one?”
“Tía, did you make those special cookies again? The ones shaped like stars?” Elijah asks, bouncing slightly on his toes.
Her lips curl into a faint smile, the kind that comes from someone who’s worked hard to hide her warmth but can’t help letting it slip. “Si,pequeño,” she replies. “With extra chocolate chips.”
I watch them, something twisting uncomfortably in my chest. Two days ago, we were prisoners. Now my son’s running in circles over Pokémon, getting star-shaped cookies, and wearing little designer joggers like we’ve been here all along. The bedroom door’s been unlocked since breakfast. No guards. No threats. No cages. Just an illusion of freedom.
What’s your game, Leonid?
Kayla rises, her attention still half on Elijah as she pulls something from her apron pocket. It’s a photo, the edges creased and worn. She hesitates before holding it out to me. Her eyes shift between the picture and Elijah, who’s already back to rambling about his Pokémon stats.
“He is very much…” she begins, her thumb brushing the photo’s edge. “The way he tilts his head when he concentrates. Just likeSeñorLeonid.”
My fingers freeze on the strap of my dress as I take the picture. It’s old—Leonid, much younger, bent over paperwork with the same intense focus Elijah gets when he’s drawing. The resemblance punches me in the gut.
Shit.
“The eyes, too,” she adds quietly.
I glance at Elijah, who’s oblivious, still rambling about Pikachu. My fingers tighten on the edges of the photo as the room feels suddenly too small.
“Do you think so?” the words slip out before I can swallow them back. It’s the only thing I can manage.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
35
Clara
Ten minutes later, I’m looking at the way the entire kitchen glows under the noon sun. The air smells of fresh basil and marinara with the faintest undertone of lavender soap.
Elijah swings his legs under the table, barely tall enough to keep his plate steady as he digs into another forkful of spaghetti. His red mustache—watermelon juice this time—stretches wide as he grins at me.
The peacefulness is almost offensive.
I glance at Kayla. She’s wiping the counter, but her gaze keeps flicking to Elijah, lingering just a second too long.
Oh, shit.
I feel this icy chill creep over me, like I just realized I’ve been walking around with my tits out in public.
We need to leave. Soon.
BeforeEVERYONEconnects the dots.
“Mommy, can I have more juice? Pleeease?” His puppy-dog eyes are in full effect, but I see right through him.
“You’ve had two glasses already,” I say, picking up the jug. “Do you think you’ll grow taller if you drink more?”
He gasps, nodding furiously. “Yes! Uncle Bear said it makes you strong like him—’cause he’s a big bear!”
I snort, pouring a small amount into his glass. “Did he now? That explains so much.”
