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“What?” I whispered, barely moving my lips.

“You’re acting weird,” she said, her voice low and slurred. “You wanna scare the woman off? Make her call the cops? Then keep staring at her like that, like you’re about to confess to something.”

I didn’t say anything.

“She doesn’t know him,” Tina said. “And if she does, she’s not saying shit. But she won’t stay quiet long if you keep acting like you’ve got something to hide.”

I blinked, hard. Tina winced again, sharp, clutching her stomach with her good hand, her nails digging into my arm. Her forehead was slick with sweat, and her mouth was trembling, her lips cracked and dry and pale.

“I swear to God,” she mumbled, almost too quiet to hear, “if you get us caught because you’re overthinking, I’m stabbing you myself.”

Her body sagged again.

I caught her under the arm before she collapsed fully, gritting my teeth and yanking her upright, trying to look normal. Whatever normal looked like with a bloodied, feverish woman slumped against you and a kid wailing for his mother in the background.

“Come on,” I hissed. “Just walk. One step at a time.”

She groaned. “You walk. I’ll... I’ll float.”

I didn’t even laugh. Couldn’t. Not with Isabella still watching us and Dominic still holding the kid and the world spinning too fast under my feet.

She groaned. “You walk. I’ll... I’ll float.”

I didn’t even laugh. Couldn’t. Not with Isabella still watching us and Dominic still holding the kid and the world spinning too fast under my feet.

The moment we got up the porch and flung the door open, I grunted as I shifted Tina's weight, nearly stumbling with her full weight dragging me sideways. Her fever radiated through my shirt, and she was trembling, skin sticky against my arm.

Behind us, Adam’s voice cracked the stillness.

“I wanna go home! I want my mom!” he cried, panic rising like floodwater. “You’re not taking me home! This isn’t my house!”

Dominic was trying to keep it together, voice even. “Hey. Adam, you’re okay. No one's going to hurt you, alright? We're not lying to you. You're safe.”

But that only seemed to wind Adam up more.

“You're lying! You said I could go home! I want my mom! I wanna go now!”

Tina’s knees buckled, and I staggered to keep us upright. My shoulder slammed into the doorframe as I hauled her inside.

Isabella moved.

I felt it before I looked over my shoulder and saw it, her presence stepping forward, quiet but commanding. She said something to Dominic in low Spanish.

He shook his head without looking at her. “I’ve got this.”

“I said déjalo conmigo.” Her voice was harder this time. Final.

Dominic glanced at her, not quite irritated—more like reluctant to admit she might do better than him. “He’s just scared,” he muttered.

“I know,” Isabella said. “Let me.”

She crouched a few feet from Adam, arms relaxed at her sides, not reaching out.

And then, she started to speak—soft, quick Spanish, gentle but precise. “¿Cómo te llamas, corazón? No pasa nada, ¿sí? Respira conmigo.”

Adam stared blankly at her, sniffling. Confused. He blinked up at her, the tears slowing—but it wasn’t comprehension that made him quiet. It was just the sudden calm in her tone.

“¿No hablas español?” she asked, then paused. Studied his expression. “You don’t understand me, do you?”

Adam shook his head violently, cheeks blotchy and streaked.

So she switched. And just like that, her voice turned low, crisp, deliberate. “Okay. Okay, listen to me, baby. You’re not in trouble. You didn’t do anything wrong. You’re just scared, huh? That’s alright. But look at me.”

She waited. Adam’s eyes flicked to hers.

“There you go,” she said. “Breathe, okay? Just like that. One breath in. One out.”

He hiccupped, his chest shaking, but she kept going. “You miss your mom. I know. That’s okay. But nobody’s going to hurt you. Not him,” she nodded to Dominic, “and not me. You’re safe right now.”

Adam’s lip trembled. He wiped his face with the back of his hand.

“Good,” Isabella whispered. “You’re doing good. Just keep breathing.”

And slowly, so slowly, it stopped. The wailing. The screaming. His little fists unclenched. His shoulders dropped an inch. His breath still hitched, but the worst of it had passed.

Dominic let out a low snort, rubbing a hand across his jaw. “Thank the gracious God.”

Isabella didn’t acknowledge that. She just brushed a hand through Adam’s hair, murmuring something under her breath, then offered her palm. He didn’t take it. But he didn’t pull away either.

I and Tina stepped inside completely. Knowing everything was now under control—and that Isabella wasn’t going to rat us out even though we had a kidnapped kid—somehow made me feel safer. Not by much. But a little.

Tina’s weight dragged at my side, her arm slung over my shoulder, and every other step was a stumble. My heart thudded like a snare drum, quick and anxious. And still, something in me started to calm now that we were out of the open.

The house was beautiful. Too beautiful. It was one of the things I had considered when getting it.

I remember the first time I stepped into it—years ago now, back when everything was calmer. Or at least, when I could still pretend things were normal.

The agent, a thin woman named Loretta with perfectly styled box braids and bright red lipstick, had opened the grand door with a flourish, stepping aside to let me in first. “Wait till you see this entryway,” she’d said, her voice buttery with confidence. “I promise you, it’s love at first sight.”

She wasn’t wrong.

The grand entryway alone looked like a photo from a luxury magazine. The polished marble floor gleamed under a cascade of warm recessed lighting that stretched upward into a vaulted ceiling. A soft lavender scent lingered in the air, faint but intentional. High above us, a crystal chandelier caught the light and refracted it in subtle prisms onto the cream-colored walls. The place was silent, but not dead—like someone lived here and wanted it to feel alive.

Step by step, I led Tina deeper inside, our footsteps echoing as we passed a row of narrow windows framed by sheer white curtains. Gold accents framed every edge, around the doorframes, the baseboards, even the air vents. There was an arched alcove with a built-in shelf displaying old, thick-spined books and glass sculptures in shades of amber and emerald. Too many, too neatly arranged. The symmetry was unsettling.

But it wasn’t until we stepped into the living room that my stomach tensed.

It was gorgeous, just like I remembered, but something was... wrong.

The space opened up like a cathedral. The ceiling lifted even higher, domed with delicate molding painted in soft dove gray. The walls were a matte ivory, lit gently by wall sconces shaped like unfurled petals. The centerpiece of the room was a long, sweeping sectional couch in rich charcoal velvet, L-shaped and sunken into a dip in the floor, almost like a conversation pit from another era. A low glass coffee table sat in the middle, perched atop an intricate Persian rug—deep burgundy and navy with golden threads woven through floral patterns so precise it looked painted. On the coffee table were fresh lilies in a sleek, tall vase, petals already starting to curl at the edges like they’d been sitting there just a little too long.

A scent drifted off the flowers, sweet and powdery, but not strong enough to cover the faint trace of musk beneath it. A cologne? No. Aftershave maybe. Something male. Recent.

The furniture around the room didn’t match entirely, two high-backed armchairs in forest green velvet flanked the sectional, and an antique grandfather clock stood proudly in the corner, its pendulum swaying with a hypnotic tick. A bookshelf spanned the far wall, filled with novels, some in English, others in Spanish, but it was the small personal items tucked between the books that caught my eye: a weathered wallet, a set of car keys, sunglasses—none of which looked like they belonged to Isabella.

Then the TV flickered, the only movement in the room besides the clock.

It was on low volume, but clearly not muted.

Some kind of nature documentary played. A lioness stalking through tall grass, her body slinking low, golden eyes unblinking. The narrator’s voice was low, calm, with a British accent. “The lioness, patient and poised, will often wait hours before making her move. Every muscle in her body is wired for the kill.”

Odd. The remote sat untouched on the armrest.

In the background, from a hidden ceiling speaker, music played softly. An old Spanish bolero—Sabor a Mí—the kind of slow, haunting melody that filled the silence rather than broke it. The singer’s voice was gravelly with emotion, thick with longing. It didn’t match the visuals on the TV, and the clash between the two sent a chill through me.

I helped Tina lower into the sectional couch carefully. Her legs gave out almost instantly, and she sank into the plush cushions with a groan. Her skin was pale, lips cracked, eyes glassy with fever.

But then, just as I pulled the throw blanket over her, I heard it.

Shff... shff... Soft footsteps on tile. Coming from around the corner. Not quick. Just... present. Then a voice called out from the hallway, male, casual. “Where did you leave the lighter? I can’t find it.”

I froze. My heart lurched so violently I thought I’d actually flinch. Tina’s head snapped toward me.

Her eyes widened, sharp with sudden clarity. “Eleanor,” she whispered, voice thin, “did Isabella say anyone else lived here?”

I didn’t answer.

Because I didn’t know. 

But I swear to God, if we got ratted out because Isabella had a manwhore or boyfriend in the house and hadn’t mentioned it to me, I was going to rip her head off her neck.