Page 74 of The Golden Hour

Sometimes he said the weirdest things. Sometimes those things scared me. But he was still my favorite uncle. The only one who always had time for me, a funny story to tell, or a game to play. Lately, though, he’d been frowning more than smiling.

“Bury it in the garden,” he instructed after a moment.

His tone frightened me, so I hurried to gather my small shovel. Cradling it with the plaque, I headed toward the open doors of the stable.

Behind me, my uncle muttered, “Let the worms come for it as surely as they’re coming for me.”

Two days later, he was dead.

* * *

The streets are empty, golden-orange under the glow of city lamps until I exit the freeway and the lights come fewer and farther between. The hills of Calabasas rise around me in the dark.

I think of Finn waking to find me gone and hope one day he’ll understand.

I always knew I’d be alone in the end.

When I make the final turn onto our street, I see the gates standing open. The house beyond is dark; it’s the middle of the night, after all. But they’re waiting for me.

You know what we want

The text message from an unknown number came with an image attached of a woman. She’s gagged, her hands bound before her with nylon, and sits on the foot of a familiar bed, in a room that’s a time capsule of the past. Floral wallpaper. Pink and white gingham bedspread with ruffles and matching pillowcases.

Vivian lied when she told me my childhood room had been repurposed, which I’d taken to mean gutted. From what I could see of the image’s background, nothing has changed. Even the row of creepy-as-fuck, oversized dolls remains on the window seat. I hated the dolls, their blank eyes and perfect curls. Vivian didn’t care—or more likely, enjoyed tormenting me—and gave me a new one every Christmas.

My palms are clammy on the steering wheel as I pull to a stop before the front door. My heart, conversely, is preternaturally calm. No more self-doubt. No fear or anger. This isn’t about revenge anymore, but about wiping the slate clean. Cutting away the roots of obligation, ambition, and corruption that have held my family down for generations. Purging the poison that infected my little sister.

That infects us all.

As I exit the car and walk up the steps, a figure steps outside to greet me. Slim. Blond hair. Trembling shoulders.

“They said I can’t kill you yet.” So much betrayal and rage in her young voice.

My calm shivers but holds. I pause on the step beside her and look into her shadowed eyes. “You shouldn’t be the one to do it,” I say softly.

“I want to,” she snarls.

Tears glisten on her cheeks, touched by starlight. I don’t know if they’re real or not. Is she crazy? A sociopath? Or was she simply fed the milk of violence until it changed her?

“I never meant to hurt you, Lizzie. I love you. I didn’t know—”

“That’s enough,” rumbles Enzo, his bulky figure shifting into the doorway. “Let’s go. Traitors first.”

Though I know my end isn’t imminent—Vivian still needs something from me—I don’t like having my back to them. My skin itches, anticipating pain, as I walk down the hall and up a flight of stairs. The door to my old room stands open, soft light spilling into the hallway, tinged pink from fabric lampshades.

I pause on the threshold, absorbing changes I hadn’t been able to see in the photo’s narrow field. The decor is the same, yes, but there’s signs of occupation. An open closet filled with adult, feminine clothes. A dresser, new and white, with framed photos on top. Recent photos, including one from the garden party of the three of us—Lizzie beaming between me and Ellie.

Vivian’s sigh brings my gaze to where she sits on the window seat. The dozen or so dolls are in a pile on the floor, lidless eyes staring, arms and legs bent at weird angles in a macabre display. Franco leans against a nearby wall, his smile vulpine, a toothpick bobbing between his teeth.

“It’s rather odd, isn’t it?” asks Vivian. “I told her it was disturbing behavior, wanting to live in your room with your hideous things around her day in and day out. But you know Lizzie when she puts her mind to something.”

I give the dolls a pointed glance. “You were the one who forced all these hideous things on me.”

She smiles, slight and cruel. “I enjoyed the look on your face every time you unwrapped one.”

“I imagine you did.”

Finally, I glance at the woman on the floor. She stares up at me, her eyes wet and terrorized. “Please,” she slurs around the gag in her mouth, “Please help me.”

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