Chapter 3 The Blood Behind the Charm

I couldn't shake the photo.

Why would a man keep a picture of his dead ex inside a textbook he gifted his stepdaughter? Sloppy? Or a message?

I searched online. "Amara Blake. Car accident. 2007."

Nothing.

Then I tried "Amara missing Atlanta 2007."

There it was.

A missing persons case. No body found. No leads. Closed.

I stared at the blurry newspaper photo. It was her. Amara. Same smile. Last seen leaving her apartment with a man described as "tall, dark-haired, charming." No name. No arrest.

I didn't tell Mom.

She was too busy gushing over the garden Damian had built for her. "He even planted my favorite lilies," she said dreamily. "Can you believe that?"

Yes. I could.

That night, I woke to hushed voices. Low. Urgent. Coming from the living room.

I crept down the hall.

Damian was on the phone.

"...she's asking questions," he said, his back to me. "I'll handle it."

My breath caught. I stumbled slightly.

He stopped speaking. Silence fell like a hammer.

Then came footsteps-slow, deliberate, heavy-toward the hallway.

I bolted back into my room, shut the door, and locked it with trembling fingers.

The next morning, he made pancakes.

Blueberry.

And watched me eat.