Page 36

Veronica

D arkness.

A suffocating, endless void.

Then hands. They claw at her skin, grip her thighs, and rip her clothes.

The air in the alleyway is damp and thick with the scent of rotten garbage and urine. Her hands scramble against the cold asphalt, nails chipping as she tries to crawl out of their captivity.

“Fucking cunt,” one sneers in French. “Where do you think you’re going, huh?”

She can’t see his face. Can’t see any of their faces. She just knows they are four in numbers. And they weigh heavier than her. Their shadow stretches across the wall, grotesque monsters with way too many limbs.

“I want you to know that you deserve this.” A sharp ache ripples between her thighs as one shoves himself inside her, hard, rough, while the others hold down her hands, her legs, hand muffling her screams. “So, stay still and take it like a good girl.”

“I see you have never had a man down there,” he cackles and the rest joins in. “So fucking tight.”

“Hurry up,” another utters, the sound of a zipper piercing through the chaos in her head. “You can’t take all the fun.”

“There’s plenty enough to go around,” the one on top of her says, pulling out only to slam harder into her, gravel biting into her skin at every wicked thrust. “She’s still so fucking moist.”

They continue to laugh.

They take turns. Some go twice, some think they need more after the third one. So turn after turn, thrusts after thrusts, punches after punches, they soil her, they steal her innocence, they milk her dry.

Screaming won’t help. Yet she screams until her throat is raw. Until the stars above blur into nothing. Until she can’t feel her body anymore.

She fades.

She drowns.

She—

Beep! Beep! Beep!

Her body jerks, her breath hitching as the sound of the alarm rips her from the nightmare. A long gasp tears through her chest, her heart hammering against her ribcage. The cotton sheets are twisted around her, damp from sweat.

Her finger claws at her throat, tugging violently at their wicked grips, the phantom presence of their fingers pressing, suffocating.

For the first few seconds, she isn’t in her room. She’s still there, the dark alleyway before Rue Augustin Boulevard. The scent of filth and blood coates her tongue, the echoes of laughter crawling beneath her skin.

But the faint glow of the nightstand lamp grounds her. The alarm clock reads 7:00 a.m.

She swallows her, rubbing her face as she forces herself to breathe.

She runs a finger through her hair, the heels of her palms pressing into her eyes, exhaustion weaving into her bones.

The nightmares have been back for a week now. When Raidon’s steady voice could no longer serve as an anchor, that, for some reason, has managed to keep her from drowning in the past before. Now, she hasn’t heard from him in days, and the lingering memory of him is no longer strong enough to keep the darkness at bay.

She didn’t notice the pattern until that time they went on a break and didn’t talk for weeks. The nightmares started to crawl in. And that’s when she realized until they stopped talking, she hadn’t been having them. Then she went to Russia to see him, and in those few days she spent, she didn’t have any nightmares. He is gone again, hours turning to days, days turn to weeks, and five days ago, the nightmares came back, ravenous, feasting on the silence he left behind.

Rolling her neck to work out the stiff muscles, she finally drags herself out of bed. It’s the first day of school after winter break. She doesn’t want to be the last to walk into class.

The house is eerily quiet as she steps into the hallway. Subconsciously, she glances at Marlene’s door, the emptiness inside echoing.

Today makes it fourteen days since Marlene suddenly disappeared without a word. On the fifth day, Veronica wanted to know if she was still in Pennsylvania, so she called her office, and her assistant, Zara, the Turkish junior detective placed under her, said she had taken a leave.

For some reason, Veronica thought Marlene was scared. Maybe her pulse had stopped when she passed out and Marlene assumed she had killed her. But then again, she would have known. She was her only guardian. If she was dead, Marlene would have been contacted. She would have known if she really killed her or not.

So if she wasn’t scared that she went overboard with the last beating and decided to run away, where did she go?

Veronica internally winces at her reflection in the mirror. If not for her being someone who was already used to putting on makeup, she would end up at school today as the only girl who came back from a three-week break looking like a zombie. Her eyes are hollow, dark bags looking like bruises under her eyes.

Her lips press in a thin line and she shakes her head, not so impressed. She can’t imagine the amount of concealer she is going to need to cover that today.

She pulls off her clothes and steps into the shower. Steam rises around her, fogging the air. She tilts her head back, letting the scalding heat burn the remnant of the dream off her skin.

But the memories are strong now, flashing behind her closed eyes. The darkness, the hands, their wicked words.

“I hope you know you deserve this.”

“Your father took many lives. Hopefully, your pussy can pay the price.”

“Maybe if you stop screaming like a banshee, you might actually enjoy being gang-banged like this.”

“I should fill you up with my seed. But what’s the guarantee you won’t infect the child with your family’s curse?”

“Hold down her fucking hands, I wanna come so fucking hard in her mouth since her cunt is off limit.”

“Fucking daughter of a monster. You deserve everything you’re getting.” The words are layered with spite. “You deserve being forced to take four cocks in your tight, little cunt.”

But she was just ten.

She sucks in a sharp breath, her warm tears mixing with the hot water cascading down her face. Her father’s sin was never meant to be hers to bear. And yet, the world and fate itself thought so. And over time, she started believing so too. Because even the Holy book said it. And the Holy book doesn’t lie, does it? The sins of the father shall be visited on the child.’ Those are God’s words, aren’t they? So if the maker of heavens and earth thinks she deserves it, who is she to disagree?

So she will take it. Whatever the world throws at her. She will take it all. Because she’s the only child of her father. She can’t clearly share the wage now, can she? She will take it all.

She stays under the spray until the water turns cold. Then she forces herself out, wrapping a thin white towel around her body.

The routine is automatic, like that of a robot would—lotion, deodorant, brushing her hair into something presentable for the first day of school.

By the time she sits in front of the mirror, the uniform she ironed till the edges became as sharp as a blade last night, clings to her skin. She unscrews the cap of her cherry red lipstick, bringing it to her lips. Then a loud knock on the front door causes her to still.

She glances at her door, which is left open, peeking into the hallway. She didn’t hear any car pull up at her house. So it’s definitely not Shiro because Shiro wouldn’t bother coming in, he would just start blaring his horn.

Then she wonders if it’s Marlene. Wherever she ran off to after nearly killing her, maybe she has gotten tired of that place and decided to come back home.

“Is anybody in this house at all?” she hears the person murmur just behind the door, the voice thick with a familiar accent.

Placing her lipstick down after lining her lips, she runs her fingers through her wavy hair which she packed in a half bun, the top held together with a black claw lip.

The sound of her ankle boots echoes with a dull thud as she walks down the hallway to the living room. The knock comes again, this time, louder.

As she pulls the door open, her lips part in shock. The person standing behind the door is the last person she expects to see at their house, so early in the morning nearly after twelve years.

Carla Mendes.

The last time Veronica saw her was at her dad and Marlene’s wedding. And even as a seven-year-old child, she couldn’t help but notice Carla was the unhappiest mother of the bride she had ever seen that day.

What is she doing here?

“Grand—ma?” The word sounds weird on her tongue. Maybe it would have come out naturally if she had come to visit after the wedding…or called a few times.

“Grand-daughter?” The woman mimics, not very impressed by Veronica’s poor hospitality.

Veronica glances behind Carla, then to her left and her right, expecting another woman with curly chestnut hair, hard brown eyes, and a pressed black suit to suddenly show up.

“I’ve been knocking for hours.” Carla’s Puerto Rican accent is evident and raw, unlike Marlene’s, which has faded over the years. “I was almost afraid there was no one at home.”

Carla seems to be struggling with a smile. And it looks like she would have probably smiled really warmly if her eyes didn’t fall on Veronica’s plaid skirt which definitely, to her dislike, stops a good inch above her knees.

Carla is a deaconess back in Cape Verde. She hates things that don’t glorify God. A woman’s body is the temple of God, and they are told to not expose it too much. And Carla is a woman who takes that law very seriously.

“I uh, I didn’t know you were coming—”

“I didn’t think I would still be standing outside being interrogated after traveling hours across the ocean to come here.” She gently touches her permed hair, then drags her hand down her peach, blazer gown to smoothen out invisible wrinkles. “But here we are.”

Her calmer brown eyes, unlike Marlene’s vindictive ones, cut back to Veronica, and she offers her the fakest of all smiles. But it’s still more welcoming and real than Marlene’s evil ones.

“Sorry,” Veronica says softly, opening the door wide and stepping aside to usher her in. Rolling her eyes which appear rather cute to Veronica, Carla sighs and takes a step in.

For some reason, Veronica still expects to see Marlene hanging around somewhere, so she takes a step onto the porch and looks around. Maybe, very unrealistically, she is afraid to see her after almost killing her and running away. Maybe she feels guilty so she’s hiding.

“Will you please, bring in my bag, child?” Carla’s command echoes from the living room, sarcasm layered in the request.

Veronica quickly discards her mission and hurries back to the threshold, grabbing Carla’s bag which turns out to weigh more than she presumes as it nearly drags her down.

“Have you thought of using the stroller, perhaps, child?” Veronica doesn’t even have to look at Carla. From her condescending tone, she knows the woman is looking at her like she’s the most stupid girl she has ever met.

“Yeah, that. Thanks.” An embarrassing smile creeps up her lips as she pulls out the handle and drags the bag inside to her.

“Tea or coffee?” Veronica asks after placing the bag next to where Carla sits daintily on the two-seater couch, glancing around cautiously as though she may very well be sitting on a pile of garbage.

Carla takes a deep breath. “Anyway, I don’t drink coffee.” Her judgemental eyes return to scanning Veronica from head to toe, sharp gaze zeroing particularly on her plaid skirt. “You would know that if it ever crossed your mind that I existed.”

Veronica’s mouth opens and snaps shut again. She has what she thinks would have been a great comeback. But if Carla is anything like Marlene, she knows she will go to school after a long holiday with busted lips and swollen eyes.

But seriously, is this woman sharing the same mental problem as her daughter? The first time she and Veronica met was at the wedding. Carla stayed behind for a week after that. Yes, she did drag Veronica to church and forced a Bible into her tiny hands, but they still weren’t that close. After Carla left, that was the last time Veronica spoke to her. She never saw a missed call with Cape Verdean country code beside it to assume it could be Carla. So what the hell is she on?

“I apologize,” Veronica says with the kindest smile. “I’ll um…I’ll get the tea.”

Carla murmurs something in Puerto Rican under her breath. Something that sounds really snarky and judgemental.

As she tries to make the tea, she wonders if she should ask her what exactly she is doing here.

She just needs closure. Nothing is making sense or adding up. Where is Marlene if her mother is here? Why is her mother here after how many years?

“Sugar?” she asks over the kitchen counter, a last-minute thought before she almost dumps a spoonful of sugar in the tea.

“No sugar, child,” Carla replies, rummaging through her handbag and fishing out a small, red and round object. “I have my sweetener.”

“Oh, okay.” Veronica feels the need to slap a permanent smile on her face as she takes the tea to Carla. And to be honest, her cheeks are starting to hurt.

“May I know—”

“So, where is your mother?”

The strange word Carla uses to refer to Marlene takes Veronica off-guard and she dramatically halts, her brows furrowed.

Mother?

“Sorry?” she asks, her brows furrowed.

Through the rim of the cup Carla has taken to her lips, she peeks at Veronica, then shakes her head in what looks a lot like disappointment.

“It’s been seven years that she has been raising and catering for you.” She places the cup aside. “You still don’t think she deserves to be called your mother yet?”

Veronica feels like chortling. But she opens her mouth only to snap it shut again. She has no words.

“She hasn’t been home.” Veronica doesn’t have the answer to her latter question, so she answers the former instead. “I mean, I woke up one morning and she was gone. I thought it was for work, but she didn’t come home for 72 hours. After a few days, I called her office and her partner said she took a leave.”

“I see.” She sighs after a while, then sip her tea gently. “Well, where could she have gone without a note, at least?”

“I don’t really know any friends of hers.” Veronica shifts uncomfortably on her heels. “So I don’t know anyone else to call. Do you know anyone?”

“I haven’t heard from her in three years.” Carla’s eyes drop to her plaid skirt again. “You live with her, you should have figured out a way by now.”

“Of course,” Veronica murmurs, glancing at her skirt and grabbing the hem, tugging it down a little even though it does nothing.

“Marlene watches you go to school like this every day?” Her tone is a bit harsh. “With this skirt they probably gave you from the Elementary collection? What happened to the rest of the material?”

Veronica takes in a sharp breath, about to speak but a loud blare cuts her off.

Her head snaps to the door at the sound of Shiro’s car. A sigh of relief washes over her.

“Um, my ride to school is here,” she says, glancing briefly at Carla before dashing toward the kitchen counter to grab her school bag. “See you when I get back, grandma.”

“Do you think she’ll be as terrible as Marlene?” Shiro asks, dropping onto the chair behind Veronica.

“What?” She cranes her neck to look at him.

He props his chin on his fist, elbow braced against the desk, his gaze lazy but perceptive.

“Is that why you look kinda worried?” he asks. “That she may hit you and be nasty like Marlene?”

“No.” Veronica shakes her head. But the weight of the words feel fragile on her tongue. “I don’t…think so.”

Shiro’s expression remains skeptical.

“I mean, she’s like a very devoted Christian.” She shrugs as if that alone can fix anything. For some reason, she always thinks Christians—the ones who actually do go to church, are really kind people, even though it can’t be so true sometimes. She did hear about a priest who raped a teenage girl in his church last year.

Shiro’s scoff is immediate. “That has nothing to do with anything.” His free hand plays with the tendril of her curls. “The worst are in the church, trust me.”

“Still,” she muses, turning back to the front of the class as the chatter increases, the more students strut in. “I don’t think she’s gonna be as bad. She’s gonna probably be torturing me with the word of God, waking me up with a Bible verse.” Then her eyes drop to her thigh where her skirt lays. “Perhaps ask me to go add some inches to my skirt.”

“That’s gonna be bad too,” Shiro mutters, distaste curling his lips. His eyes flicker to the door as more students shuffle in, the buzz in the room increasing as everyone chat away about their holiday experiences.

“Honestly, I’ll take that over swollen eye and probably loose teeth,” she chuckles, as if the scars from Marlene’s vice are funny.

“Morning, class!”

The familiar voice rips through the room, silencing every other sound.

Veronica freezes, a sharp chill sweeping over her skin, seeping into her bones.

Jack Griffin?

Her heart slams into her ribs.

“What?” Shiro whispers, but the word barely registers before the murmurs of students ripple across the room.

“I thought he was just here until Mr. Wayne came back?” someone asks, ripping the question on Veronica’s tongue right out.

Jack Griffin moves to his desk, adjusting his glasses with a finger, sharp eyes sweeping the room. “Unfortunately.” His voice drifts across the room, bathing Veronica’s skin in goosebumps. “Mr. Wayne won’t be returning. I’ll be handling the class for the rest of the semester.”

No.

His gaze finds her at last, locking on her like a man with a purpose.

The last few days before winter breaks float into Veronica’s memory. He was always watching her. In his class, his sharp gaze always found her, a bone-chilling presence settling behind it. In the hallway, on the bleachers, in the parking lot—no matter where she went, she felt eyes watching her. And when she searched, she would find him, lurking in the shadows like a predator waiting for its prey to wander into the trap.

But as winter break came, she thought it was over. He was just a temporary teacher till Mr. Wayne would return. Jack Griffin was never meant to come back. But here he is anyway, and this time, he is here to stay?

“I enjoyed the few times we shared together last semester,” he says, his eyes barely straying from Veronica. “I am happy to be back.”

There’s something cruel and deliberate in every sweep of his gaze. And the smile he manufactures to ease the tension in the class feels like something from the pit of hell.

Her pulse pounds. There’s a purpose in his stare. A promise.

He definitely is challenging her, waiting for her to break.

“I really think you should talk to him,” Shiro says, his pace falling into rhythm with Veronica’s as they weave their way through the chaos of students flooding out of the school.

“Talk to him about what, exactly?” she asks, her voice taut, clipped, tension weaving into her bones.

He sidesteps a kid who almost barrels into him. “He’s clearly making you uncomfortable. And I think that’s what he wants. To make you scared. You need to ask him why he’s trying to make you scared.” Veronica tightens her grip on the strap of her backpack, his words making her chest heavier. “Remember what he said about being here for the rest of the semester? Yeah, that’s fucking six months. Imagine going through anxiety for six months?”

Veronica takes in a sharp breath before speaking. “Whatever he’s doing, he’s doing it because he knows something. Confronting him will cement whatever he thinks he knows if it was just a guess before.”

“There are ways to do these things.” Shiro slings an arm around her shoulder, pulling her closer. “You gotta be coded when you ask him.”

She arches her brow. “And by coded, you mean?”

Shiro doesn’t answer immediately. His hold on her seems to tighten protectively, his gaze somewhere far away. And when she glances up at him, she notices his expression hardening.

“What is it?” She follows his line of sight.

“He’s here.”

Alarm prickles down her spine. And when her eyes finally fall on the black SUV Shiro is staring at, her stomach lurches.

It’s parked in the teacher’s spot again, windows tinted, the weight of unseen eyes pressing, assessing.

Her heart pounds.

Who is here?

Kael or Raidon?