Chapter 2

For a moment, there was a stunned silence, broken only by the sound of the waves. Then, chaos erupted.

"Molly!" Elyse shrieked, a sound like tearing fabric.

Andrew, his face pale with shock, didn't hesitate. "She can't swim!" he yelled, and in a clumsy, panicked motion, he vaulted over the railing himself, plunging into the dark water after her.

Owen Chadwick turned to me, his face a mask of purple fury. His hand flew up and struck me across the cheek. The slap was hard, meant to punish, to break.

"You monster," he breathed, his voice shaking with a mixture of rage and fear.

I tasted blood in my mouth and smiled. He had no idea how right he was. The sting on my cheek was nothing. It was a ghost of a pain compared to the rope around my neck, the fire at my feet, the endless, lonely wandering. It was nothing compared to the quiet misery this girl, the original Gabrielle, had endured her whole life.

I could feel her memories, her pain, as if it were my own. The gnawing hunger, the ulcer that burned in her stomach from years of not having enough to eat. The sting of being called "hick" and "hillbilly" by the other children. The way her adoptive parents, though they named her Hope, saw her as a burden. And then the ultimate betrayal: being "rescued" only to be despised by the very people who should have loved her.

They pulled a sputtering, shivering Molly from the harbor. Andrew, soaked and furious, helped carry her inside, where Elyse wrapped her in a dozen blankets, cooing over her as if she were a wounded bird.

Molly, ever the actress, played her part perfectly. Tears streamed down her face as she pointed a trembling finger at me. "She tried to kill me, Daddy. She' s crazy. We have to do something."

Owen' s eyes, cold and calculating, settled on me. This wasn't about justice. It was about control. About managing a public relations problem.

"She needs to be taught a lesson," he declared. "A harsh one."

Their plan was simple, and cruel. The next morning, the Chadwicks, along with a still-sniffling Molly and a glowering Andrew, packed their bags for their summer home in the Hamptons.

"We're leaving," Owen announced, standing by the front door. "When you're ready to apologize and act like a civilized human being, you can try calling us. Maybe we'll answer."

As their car pulled away, I heard a series of clicks and whirs. The power to the mansion was cut. The high-tech security system, designed to keep intruders out, now served to lock me in. The metal shutters slammed down over the windows, plunging the grand house into a tomb-like darkness.

They had emptied the refrigerator before they left. They knew about the original Gabrielle's ulcer. They assumed a few days of starvation and isolation would break me. They thought I would be on my knees, begging for their forgiveness.

They were wrong.

A spirit doesn't need food.

For three days, I wandered the silent, dark mansion. I ran my fingers over the expensive furniture, the cold marble statues. I found Elyse' s collection of historical artifacts locked in a glass case. A tarnished silver locket from the 18th century. A worn leather-bound diary. A colonial-era mourning ring.

I didn't need to break the glass. I reached through it, my spectral energy passing through the barrier. I held each object, and I fed. Not on food, but on the residual energy, the echoes of lives lived and lost, the faint whispers of joy and sorrow trapped within them.

The hunger of the body receded, replaced by the ancient, familiar power I craved. I grew stronger in their cage.