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The mistress, the almighty mistress, is dead. And the Bad Man killed her as easily as snapping a twig.
“Get up,” the Bad Man orders the master.
Will he kill the master next? Good God, what will become of the rest of us, if there’s only the Bad Man left?
I back away then. Turn and flee awkwardly toward my room, gulping for breath. But it’s not air I need. It’s words. Words and letters and sounds. Something, anything to communicate, because the police lady will be coming again, and this time...
I need to think. I need to plan.
The end is coming, but not like I thought it would.
Run. I hear my mother’s voice.
I want to be a little girl again. I want to hold out my arms and have my mother scoop me up and hold me close. I want to hear her voice murmur my name. I want to be our pack of two, mamita and chiquita.
I want things I can never have.
Because the Bad Man took them from me.
I duck inside my room just in time to hear the heavy wooden doors groan open, then footsteps once more hit the hall. The Bad Man. Not even a break in his stride as he passes my room, heads upstairs.
The house shudders into silence.
I remain leaning against the wall of my tiny room, breathing hard. One finger for yes. Two for no. Three for maybe. And four fingers? Five?
There must be a way to communicate. There has to be a way to confess all to the blond detective who offered help. I must find it.
Because the end is coming. And name or no name, voice or no voice, I’m going to make the Bad Man pay.
Or die trying.
