4

Giselle

The candy bar dangled from my lips like a pathetic shield against the world, its sweetness a cruel contrast to the unease gnawing in my gut. I shoved my earbuds in, Billie Eilish whispering Birds of a Feather into my skull as the sun pressed warm fingers against my face. For one fleeting moment, everything almost felt normal.

But normal doesn’t last. Not for me.

I veered down the shortcut, pocketing the candy wrapper before Mrs. Willowbee could spot me. That woman and her ketchup-chip obsession were enough to haunt my nightmares. Worse were her gnomes—lined in perfect ranks across her lawn, their chipped smiles frozen in eerie welcome. I swear their painted eyes followed me, mocking, knowing.

My fence came into view. I tossed my backpack over and vaulted after it, landing with an undignified oomph on the grass. Dirt clung to my jeans as I hauled myself upright, trying to shake off the sudden prickle skating down my spine.

That’s when I saw it.

The screen door. Crooked. Hanging by one hinge like it had been ripped open and abandoned.

A hush blanketed the yard. Not silence—the kind of hush that listens, that waits for you to make the wrong move. The kind that whispers, Turn back.

I climbed the deck steps anyway, each one groaning under my weight. My heart pounded against my ribs as I eased the door wider and slipped inside.

The air hit me first. Heavy. Metallic. A storm of fear pressed into the walls.

Then the sight of him—my father—stole my breath. Tied to a chair, head slumped, face a wreck of bruises and blood. My world tilted violently.

“Dad?” My voice cracked, a child’s plea wrapped in terror. I stumbled over shattered picture frames—my dance recitals, violin concerts—all trampled under violence. My hands shook as I pressed trembling fingers to his neck.

A pulse. Faint. Fragile. Still there.

Relief stabbed through me, but it was fleeting—because then I heard it. A whisper. Soft. Wet. Fragile.

I turned, and my soul split open.

“Mama…”

She was crumpled on the floor, scarlet spilling across the hardwood like spilled wine, her amber eyes dulling into glass. Her shirt clung to the wound in her side, blood gushing in a relentless tide.

“No, no, no—stay with me.” I ripped the throw blanket from the couch and pressed it against her wound, my hands slick with her blood. She flinched but didn’t cry out—she didn’t have the strength.

Her trembling fingers curled around mine, sticky and weak. “Giselle …” Her voice rasped through the blood in her throat. “You need to go. Now. Before they find you.”

“They?” My tears blurred her face. “Mom, I’m not leaving you—let me call an ambulance—”

“No police.” Her tone cracked like a whip despite her frailty. “Uncle Malik will come. He’ll get you to safety. Promise me you’ll go with him.”

“Stop,” I sobbed. “Don’t talk like that. You’re going to be fine. You have to be fine.”

Her grip tightened once, desperate, before faltering. “I’m already gone, baby.”

The words gutted me.

I bent over her, shaking my head violently as tears streamed down. “No! You’re not allowed to leave me, not like this—”

“Listen.” Her eyes, fading fast, locked with mine. “I am proud of you. So proud. Everything we did—your father and I—it was to protect you. I should have prepared you for this world, but I didn’t. I’m sorry.” Her breath rattled. Her lips parted one last time. “I love you, Giselle .”

I clutched her hand as it slipped limp in mine. “I love you too, Mama.”

The silence that followed was suffocating, a silence I would never forget.

I don’t know how long I sat there on the blood-soaked floor, her body pressed against me, before the world clawed back into focus. My phone. With trembling hands, I dialed 9-1-1.

“This is 9-1-1, what is your emergency?”

My voice cracked. “Someone broke into our house… my parents are—” The word stuck, jagged and impossible.

The operator’s voice gentled. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Giselle ,” I whispered.

“Okay, Giselle . I’m Ella. Help is on the way. Who is hurt?”

“My mother’s dead and my father—”

“Giselle …”

His voice. Hoarse. Weak. Alive.

I dropped the phone and spun. My father’s head lifted, blood dripping down his face, his blue eyes swimming with pain.

I crawled to him, cradling his battered cheeks in my palms. “Dad, oh my God. Who did this? Tell me. Please, tell me.”