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“Maybe. Would you like to try it?”
“I’d like that,” he whispers, a fragile smile playing on his lips. “Lottie.”
“Yeah, little man?”
“I’m forgetting Mom.” His innocent eyes brim with tears, bearing a grief no child should have to endure. I anticipated this day would come. He’s merely eight, yet his soul carries the weight of years beyond his tender age. Most people don’t even remember that age. Most people don’t remember being a baby, but Milo? He’s special. He clings to every memory like a lifeline, clutching the remnants of our shattered past.
Never in all my life have I felt my heart twist the way it does right now. I can’t conceal the tears that escape my eyes, tracing a path to the pillow below, soaking the fabric.
“Then I’ll just have to make sure you never forget,” I assure him, my voice quivering under the weight of the promise. It takes every ounce of strength to utter those words, to swallow my own grief and offer him comfort.
“Do you think we can go home and watch the videos again?” he asks, his vulnerability breaking through, a plea for solace and a chance to clutch onto the echoes of a mother’s laughter.
I have to lick my lips several times to gather the courage to respond, each word carrying the weight of unshed tears and a longing for a past that seemed to slip through our fingers. “Yeah.” Whenever Milo misses Mom, he asks to watch those videos. It’s why I kept an old-school DVD player, a relic from a time when happiness didn’t feel so fragile, despite everything in the world going digital. “Of course.”
“I just want to hear her laugh,” he whispers and yawns again, the innocence of his desire tugging at my heartstrings. “She had the best laugh.”
“It was like a donkey.” I blink away my tears and force a strained laugh, trying to recreate the sound that now echoes in the chambers of my memory, a haunting reminder of a life forever altered.
“You’ll never leave me, right, Lottie?” His blue eyes blink at me. I see a mosaic of emotions in his gaze, a plea for reassurance and stability. To him, I’m his world, and though it’s not what I envisioned, because a kid should always have a loving parent, he has me.
“Nothing in this world can ever take you from me.” I reach out and draw him in for an awkward hug, his small frame pressed against my chest.
I don’t want to make him that promise, and a part of me resists, grappling with the uncertainties of our present and the lurking shadows of our past, but here we are, confined within the oppressive walls of the mansion, a looming fortress of secrets and dangers birthed from the nefarious depths of a criminal family that thrives in the shadows.
The urge to run, to break free from this life, courses through me like a relentless river, but a voice in the back of my head, a tender whisper, urges caution. It’s a subtle reminder to keep them close and not relinquish the tenuous grip I have on their world. I like to believe it’s Mom’s voice, a maternal echo urging me to persevere for one more day, because when night descends and the shadows grow longer, they can protect us.
I need that protection. It’s a grim reality, a compromise with my moral compass, but survival often demands such compromises.
When did all of this get so damn complicated?
I shift back, my fingers tenderly brushing over his forehead, a gesture imbued with love and a desperate need for protection in a world teetering on the precipice of darkness.
“Lottie?” He stirs, rubbing his eyes.
“Yeah?” I lean in, bracing myself for whatever innocent inquiry might come my way.
“Your breath smells,” he states matter-of-factly, oblivious to the intricacies of life that weigh heavily on my shoulders. His blunt honesty elicits a chuckle, a rare moment of levity in our somber reality. It’s a flicker of normalcy in the maelstrom of our complicated existence.
He also isn’t wrong. “Come on, let’s go brush our teeth.” I roll over and swing my legs off the bed. The chair remains wedged under the door handle. I knew it was inevitable for Milo to notice, and there’s no point in trying to distract him from it.
I get up and move the chair away from the bathroom door, then the front door. Milo glances at it with a peculiar expression on his face before entering the bathroom.
“Lottie.” He turns around as I follow him. “I need some privacy.”
I hold my hands up and step backward. “Lock the doors,” I remind Milo, my voice gentle, as he slams the bathroom door shut. I wait a breath until I hear the lock click into place.
This kid is going to break me.
Running a hand down my face, I drop my head back to stare at the seemingly perfect ceiling. I hate it. Nothing is that perfect. Every time I paint, a few splatters make their way to the ceiling, a testament to the imperfect nature of life.
Dropping my head, I reach into my backpack, which I threw in here earlier, and pull out a change of clothing, tossing it onto the bed. It’s nothing special, just jeans and a T-shirt. As I rummage through the bag, my hand brushes against the folder.
Swallowing hard, I close it up tight.
“There’s a man on your bed,” Milo says as he opens the bathroom door. Startled, I turn, my heart skipping a beat.
“Why did you open the other door?” My heart jumps into my throat, and I gently push Milo into his bedroom, cautiously peering into the Jack and Jill bathroom.
