Page 133 of The Devil's Thorn

But not loud. Just tears. Sliding down my cheeks, soaking into the sleeves of my nightgown. No sobs. Just silence.

When the sun came up, the light didn’t reach me. I heard new voices. Louder ones. People calling out. Footsteps again, but heavier now. Slower.

Then something scraped. The false wall shifted and bright light poured in. I squinted against it, shrinking back.

A woman crouched down. Blonde hair. A badge on her chest. “Oh my God…” she whispered, reaching for me gently. “Sweetheart… it’s okay. You’re safe now.”

I didn’t move. I didn’t believe her. I just looked at her. And said nothing.

Because I knew something she didn’t. I wasn’t safe. Not anymore.

The woman didn’t rush me. She didn’t touch me, not at first. Just knelt there in the doorway of the closet, light behind her like a halo. “My name is Claire,” she said softly, voice warm but trembling. “I’m with the police. You’ve been very brave, sweet girl. I’m going to help you out of there, okay?”

I still didn’t speak. My tongue felt stuck to the roof of my mouth. My throat like sandpaper. But I nodded. Barely.

She reached for me, slow as anything, like I was some kind of cornered animal. Her fingers slid under my arms, and I let her lift me out.

The air in the hallway felt different—thin and cold. And wrong.

Everything was too quiet. No laughter. No music. No cinnamon from the kitchen. No fire crackling in the living room. Just the echo of boots on wood floors and the crackle of radios from the men in uniforms moving through my house.

I didn’t see Mama. I didn’t see Papà. Just strangers with tight faces and loud voices and weapons strapped to their belts like it was nothing.

Claire wrapped a blanket around my shoulders, but I didn’t remember feeling cold until that moment.

Her hand stayed on my back as she led me down the hallway. “Just keep looking at me,” she said gently. “Don’t look at anything else, sweetheart. Just me.”

So I did.

Even when I wanted to look. Even when I thought maybe if I turned my head at the last second, I’d see Mama brushing her hair or Papà reading the paper by the window.

But there was nothing.

She led me past the living room. Down the front steps. Outside.

The snow crunched under her boots. Mine were bare. I didn’t feel it. The flashing lights from the cars lit the street inblue and red. There were more people out there now. Neighbors watching from windows. A woman holding a crying baby on her porch. A man in a robe talking to another officer.

I didn’t recognizeany of them.

Claire guided me toward one of the cars, opened the back door, and helped me in. The leather seat was warm. The blanket still wrapped around my shoulders, but I held it tighter.

I turned just once and looked at my house. Lights on in every room. The front door still open.

And even from here… I knew they weren’t coming back.

Present

The apartment is quiet.The kind of quiet that settles in your bones and makes your thoughts louder.

I’m standing at the kitchen counter, the city stretching behind me in blinking reds and ghostly whites. The moon’s high tonight, but its light doesn’t reach me. It never does.

The gold bracelet slides between my fingers—light, delicate, almost weightless. My mother’s. The only real thing I have left of her. Sometimes I wonder if it remembers her pulse. Her warmth. The way she used to press it against my wrist to measure if I’d grown.

I haven’t. Not in the way she would’ve wanted.

I press my thumb to the tiny clasp and click it open. Then closed. Open. Closed. The sound is soft, but sharp. Like a warning.

It used to hurt. All of it. The nightmares. The screaming in my head. The silence after.