Page 29 of Devil's Tulip

“I’m not going to tell you not to cry. But I want you to know you’re not alone. You have me, your aunt Marie, and Dario. We’re your family now.”

I don’t want a new family.

Fresh tears fall, and I sob as I follow his pointing finger to a boy, who looks to be a little older than me, stands watching with quiet curiosity. When our eyes meet, he offers me a small, hesitant smile that I try to return, but I know I fail because his smile dims. Then I look at the woman standing behind him, and I flinch. Her eyes aren’t curious. They’re cold. Hostile.

I turn away, just in time to see Uncle Aldo shaking his head at her, his eyes dark with what seems like anger.

“Now, come on, Gigi. Let’s go inside. You’re going to love it here. It’ll be as if we’re your original family.”

“No.” A strangled whimper slips from my lips as my hand flies up to clutch my necklace protectively—but it’s not there.

I gasp awake, my lashes heavy with tears, my breath coming in shallow, uneven pants. Blinking against the disorientation, I slowly push myself up on the soft bed, hot tears stinging my cheeks as they keep falling.

Then it all comes rushing back. Uncle Aldo said they’d be like my original family—what a big fat lie that was.

Aunt Marie never warmed up to me. And a year later, Uncle Aldo and Dario became even crueler than she ever was. It was like losing my parents all over again. And yet, I still clung to hope, foolishly thinking that if I did everything they asked—if I were a good niece—they might finally accept me, start treating me like family again.

Stupid.

With shaky fingers, I wipe my face and glance at the nightstand. Mom’s necklace glints in the dim light. Relieved, I pick it up, wrap the chain around my wrist, and tie it securely so it won’t slip off. Then I slide off the bed.

I can’t believe I actually fell asleep.

Padding over to the window, I peel the curtain back and peek outside. The sky is pitch black. I must have slept for hours, but I don’t feel rested at all. In fact, I feel the opposite—my limbs heavy, my head pounding like I’ve been hit with a brick. With a sigh, I let go of the curtain.

Rested or not, it’s time to go.

If anything, that dream just solidified my decision. I can’t overstay my welcome with Michael. What if he wakes up anddecides to take me back to Uncle Aldo? The thought makes me shudder.

I don’t wait for my brain to spiral further. Jaw tight, I hurry back to the bed where my backpack is waiting.

I take off Michael’s clothes and hesitate.No, I can’t take them with me. I fold them neatly, placing them on the nightstand before slipping into my own clothes—a pair of thermal leggings and a sweatshirt. Seattle can get really chilly at night.

Slinging my backpack over my shoulders, I grunt at the weight. The canned meals inside feel heavier than before, but I don’t dare leave them behind.

Moving carefully, I open my door just a crack and peek into the hallway.

It’s empty.

Still, I tiptoe down it, just in case Michael is a light sleeper. As I descend the stairs, I wince at the motion-activated lights flicking on with each step. My breath catches, and I glance behind me, half-expecting to see Michael standing there, frowning at me.

But he’s not there.

Good.

…Then why do I feel a little disappointed? What the hell, Gianna?

The front door opens easily enough, making my stomach twist. Is this too easy? I shrug it off and slip outside, hurrying down the front steps and around the driveway, towards the stretch of road leading to the gates. But something stops me.

I turn around to stare at the pretty house one last time. It felt more like home than Uncle Aldo’s ever did.

My throat tightens. “Thank you,” I murmur, even though he can’t hear me.

Michael might have ulterior motives, but he’s still the first person to show me kindness in as long as I can remember. Herescued me. Gave me a place to stay. Let me sleep in a warm bed, eat a real meal…

I linger a little longer than I should, letting the feeling settle deep in my gut before I shake it off and force myself onward.

Enough.

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