Page 10 of Blackwood

As the car curves up a smooth stone drive, dread twists in my belly. The house that comes into view is stunning. White stucco walls, red tile roof, palm trees swaying against a bright blue sky. Bougainvillea vines frame arched windows and curl around ornate columns. A gold-plated fountain bubbles in the circular drive.

It looks like something out of a magazine. But something about it feels wrong. Too perfect. Too polished. Like when you see a doll smiling but its eyes don’t look right. Pretty, but scary underneath.

Carlos doesn’t say a word as he parks his sleek black Mercedes beside the fountain and yanks open my door.

“Get out,” he grunts.

I clutch my backpack tighter. I want to scream. To cry. To run. But I step out, because I don’t have a choice.

Where could I possibly run to?

The foyer smells like lemon polish and fresh orchids. Marble floors stretch in every direction, gleaming like glass. A grandstaircase sweeps up one side of the entrance lined with gold trim and massive portraits. Everything is elegant. Beautiful. Deadly silent.

A woman stands at the far end of the hallway poised in a pale pink silk blouse, white slacks, and dark red heels. Her chestnut hair is pinned up, lipstick is perfect, but her smile is brittle.

She’s holding a little boy on her hip. He’s got messy curls and big, anxious eyes. He buries his face in her shoulder as we get closer. Carlos doesn’t introduce them. Doesn’t care. He just flicks his eyes toward the stairs.

“Upstairs. Second door on the left. Lights out at nine. Don’t touch anything that ain’t yours. Don’t eat unless I say so. Don’t cry. And for the love of God, don’t fucking bother me. You understand?”

I whimper, “When can I see my—”

CRACK.

Fire blooms across my cheek.

“Get your little ass up to your fucking room,” he snarls.

My head snaps sideways. My ears ring and the chandelier above blurs into a thousand spinning lights. The taste of pennies fills my mouth.

For a second, I can’t move. I can’t breathe. No one has ever hit me before. Finally, my legs obey, shaky and slow, carrying me up the stairs and to the left like I’m sleepwalking through a nightmare.

With the echo of his voice still in my skull, I realize something deep in my bones. Whateverhomehad meant before, it didn’t live here.

The door creaks when I push it open. The room inside is beautiful. A full-size bed with a velvet headboard. White silky linens. A pink velvet chair in the corner sitting next to a white nightstand. A window with gauzy pink curtains and a distant view of the ocean.

If it were any other circumstance, I would’ve loved it.

I sit on the edge of the bed, arms wrapped around my knees and wonder how a girl who once danced under Arkansas sunsets had ended up here. Alone in a place that looked like paradise but feels like a trap.

“Don’t look him in the eye when he’s drinking. Don’t go near the kitchen after dark. Matter fact, don’t eat nothin’ unless Mariela puts it in your hand. And if you hear the door creak past midnight? Close your eyes and fake sleep like your life depends on it. ’Cause it might.”

I turn fast, heart in my throat.

A boy in dark jeans and a black hoodie stands in the doorway. Tall and lean, older than me by a few years. His skin is a rich, deep brown, and his jaw is tight like he was used to clenching it just to stay quiet.

But it’s his eyes that hold me. Dark brown, nearly black. Not just in color but in weight. Like they’d seen too much and refused to look away.

He doesn’t come closer. Just leans against the door frame like he’s been carved into it. His eyes don’t blink. They just watch me steady and sharp, like he’s trying to decide if I’m worth the risk.

“I’m the reason this door don’t got a lock,” he mutters, pulling his hood down. “Last time that bastard tried locking someone in here, I snapped it clean off. Carlos lost his damn mind but he ain’t fixed it since.”

He doesn’t say it to impress me. He says it like a promise. Like a warning. Like he’d do it again.

He never asks how old I am. Or why I am here. He already knows. He just looks at me with sharp intensity like he’s trying to solve a puzzle no one else can see.

“What’s your name?”

“Isabella Marie Harrington,” I say, voice small but clear.