Page 36 of A Sin So Pure

“Come, darling.” My mother takes my hand. “We’re going to get you settled upstairs, okay?”

But before we can reach the landing, a stark white light flashes, filling the house. Mama reacts faster than me, falling over me as rain crashes over us—no, not rain, glass. It cuts my hands as my mother shifts us into a sitting position.

I blink hard as the multicolored static filling my vision clears and my mother comes into the picture. Her mouth moves, but no words come out. My earspop?—

“—Elenora, honey, are you okay? Can you hear me?” Her voice is hoarse with worry, and when I nod, her shoulders sag. She wipes my cheeks, pressing a kiss to each apple, and I realize that I’m crying. “Thank the Gods. Okay. Baby, I need you to go hide so I can help your father.”

Dazed, I look down and see blood.

“Mama,” I whisper, reaching out to grip her thigh where there’s a deep gash of red.

“Shh, baby,” she coos, though I can see the pain in the way her smile cracks over her words. “I’ll be fine, but I need you to listen to me, okay?”

“I can’t leave you,” I cry. “I can help you. I’m strong.”

Her emerald eyes, mirrors of mine, shine with unshed tears.

“No baby, you can’t,” she says with the firm tone of a mother’s conviction.

No. I know that if I focused hard enough, I could help her. I could save her. Something inside of me tells me it’s the truth.

She pulls me to her chest; her heartbeat soothes my panic, if just for a moment.

“Evelyn!” I hear my father call from the living room.

My mother kisses the crown of my head.

“You need to go hide,” she says. “I love you.”

“Love you more,” I whisper into her chest.

Again, it sounds like a goodbye when it shouldn’t.

Mama pries me from her chest and pushes me back toward the hall we came from. She stands, careful not to put much weight on her wounded leg. The cut has stopped streaming blood, but she sways before steeling her spine.

“Go,” she orders.

And with one last fleeting look back at my mother, I run to the kitchen and climb into the cupboard underneath the sink.

I hide.

And I wait.

And I listen to the gunfire.

And I watch from the small crack in my hiding spot as my parents rush into the kitchen, followed by our attackers.

Then there’s red and my parent’s eyes staring up at the ceiling, unblinking.

The scene keeps playing in my head, over and over again. It fills my eyes with fresh tears—the way my mother begged and pleaded with the white-haired man.

“Where is she, Evelyn?” he snarled into my mother’s face. “Disgraces like you don’t get to keep younglings like her.”

She spat in his face, cursed his name, and then he ran his knife over her throat.

How could he do that to her?

“Come out, come out,” the man croons.

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