But all those hopes and dreams were demolished the day she got a job at an insurance company as Mr. Lawrence Lowden’s personal secretary. With Dad guzzling every drop of money he earned, desperation pushed Gabriella to apply to every job in the Fair Haven Independent just to keep food on the table. She wasn’t expecting an interview when she applied for the position, but it surprised us when the call came.
She left school when she was fifteen and had no qualifications. At least, none to be a secretary. However, with his wife on her deathbed, Lawrence hired my mother because his dick got hard when he laid eyes on her.
She was even more stunning back then, before the enhancements and wealth. A sensual body Dad used to adore more than his nightly bottle of whiskey. Natural womanly curves and sultry brown eyes no man could ever look away from.
And Lawrence certainly didn’t.
Gabriella didn’t teach me many things, but there is one lesson I will never forget. That there is nothing, anyone wouldn’t do for money. Even if it means destroying the people you love.
A Mediterranean-style stucco with two upstairs balconies stands before me. A home with too many rooms and breaching security guidelines with its large open windows, showcasing smooth marble floors, and modern furniture inside. A house that matches those mansions she used to drool over.
Letting myself in, I go upstairs to Elise’s old bedroom. I know by the silence that greets me that I’m the only one here, except the security guard and housemaid, who seldom show their faces.
The only luxury of staying the night in this ridiculous place is swimming in the indoor pool. With that in mind, I pull out one of Elise’s old bathing suits from the wardrobe. A pink one that has seen better days.
Shrugging off my hoodie and tossing it on the floor, I sit on the bed and undo the laces on my sneakers. As I reach to pull them off, my elbow slams against something hard behind me.
When I glance over my shoulder, my blood runs cold when my eyes land on a black object. A box, small enough for me not to have noticed on my way in, sits right there. Yet I should have seen it, as it’s not just any ordinary box.
It’s a coffin. My baby’s coffin sits upon the once-white sheets, now dirtied from freshly disturbed soil.
Swallowing is impossible. The lump in my throat refuses to dislodge. Maybe I’ve lost the ability to breathe altogether. The only thought that comes to mind is that he’s been here. He’s been in this house, this room.
Seeing a black envelope on top of the lid, daring to be read, I snatch it from the coffin and stumble back from the bed, hands trembling as I rip open the paper and pull out a piece of card. Written in capital letters in blood-red ink, I almost bowl over and vomit up brunch as I read the words.
WE’RE COMING FOR YOU.
Squeezing the note in my fist, I close my eyes. There’s wetness on my face, tears for a coffin that shouldn’t be here. A reminder of the baby I lost. My baby.
Of course, the coffin is only symbolic. The only decent thing Gabriella’s husband ever did for me because I’d been so distraught and begged him. I’d only been seven weeks, and I hadn’t known. I didn’t think it was there, inside of me, but that’s no excuse. I killed my baby.
My knees give way. I’m on the ground before I’m aware of the hard surface under my butt. I crawl backward, putting as much distance from the terrible things I’ve done, envisioning the lid on the coffin opening and something coming out of it to drag me to hell. But there’s no escaping, just like there’s no getting away from him.
Didn’t he always tell me he’d come for me? It was only a matter of time.
I let out a cry—a scream. I want my baby back, but not like this, never like this.
Cold reality sets in and turns my blood to ice. The man from my nightmares didn’t think twice about ripping our baby from the ground because that’s what he does. And he’s not finished. Not by a long shot.
I don’t remember arriving back in Stonehill the following morning. Having not slept, I don’t recall being dropped off, going to my room, or a nurse coming to get me for an emergency session with Dr. Rogue.
“What happened?” she asks, hitting the tip of her pen off the notepad, waiting for my answer. “Was it another nightmare?”
I stare past her, at the painting on the wall, not in the mood to talk. Especially not to someone who thinks I’m lying. Once again, the picture has changed into something terrible. The little girl on the swing is now on the floor crying. Her pretty dress is ripped, panties tangled around her ankles. Bleeding and crying and screaming for her mommy. The salty taste of her tears is in my mouth—her suffering, my suffering. Because I once was her. I was that girl.
“Heidi,” she continues, and I want to ram that stupid pen down her throat, especially as her eyes study me, watching me so closely for something. Anything to use against me. “Your mother said you had an episode?”
I don’t know what I find more annoying. That Gabriella called it an episode after discovering me on the bedroom floor with my dead baby’s coffin on the bed, or that Dr. Rogue insists on calling this woman my mother.
Mother called Lawrence to make it all go away. The coffin was taken back to the graveyard in a private car; the driver paid to keep his mouth shut. Then, after swallowing another pill while Lawrence had his back turned, she went to bed sobbing, leaving him to clean up the rest of the mess.
He was angry. Confused.
I remember him glaring
