Maya’s POV
Nina decides I'm her favorite person within the first hour of morning. It starts with a tea party.
"You have to sit here." She grabs my hand and tugs me toward a wobbly plastic chair positioned at the head of a circle of stuffed animals. "This is the special chair. Only the most important guests get the special chair."
"I'm honored." I lower myself carefully onto the seat, which creaks ominously under my weight. "Should I be worried this chair might collapse?"
"Mr. Elephant sat there yesterday and he weighs a thousand pounds." Nina waves dismissively. "You'll be fine. Now, do you want sugar in your tea? I have regular sugar and fancy sugar. The fancy sugar is invisible but it tastes better."
"Fancy sugar sounds perfect."
She pours imaginary tea into a tiny plastic cup, her face scrunched with concentration.
The cup is pink with faded flowers, clearly loved to the point of near-destruction. She hands it to me with the solemnity of a priest offering communion.
"You have to hold your pinky out," she instructs. "That's the rule. Mrs. Giraffe got kicked out last week because she forgot."
I extend my pinky and take an exaggerated sip. "Delicious. The fancy sugar really makes a difference."
Nina beams. "I told you. Okay, now I have to tell you about everyone."
She gestures to the assembled stuffed animals with the gravity of someone introducing foreign dignitaries.
"You already know Mr. Elephant. Next to him is Princess Sparkle—she's a unicorn but she's also a doctor. Then there's Baby Bear, who's not actually a baby, he's just small. And that's Whiskers," she points to a bedraggled cat missing most of its stuffing "he's the oldest one. He's been to seventeen countries."
"I thought Mr. Elephant was the one who'd been to seventeen countries."
"They went together." She says this like it's obvious. "They're best friends. Best friends do everything together. Do you have a best friend, Maya?"
The question lands like a stone in still water. I think of Lora—her laugh, her warmth, the way she'd stay up all night talking to me about nothing and everything.
"I did," I say carefully. "A long time ago."
"What happened to them?"
"She... had to go away."
Nina's face falls. "Like Sarah? Sarah had to go away too, to Barcelona. That's in Spain, which is very far." She takes a thoughtful sip of her own invisible tea. "Do you think your friend is happy where she went?"
My throat tightens. "I hope so."
"Maybe she misses you. I bet she misses you. When Sarah left, Mommy said she probably misses us even though she's having adventures. Missing people and having adventures can happen at the same time."
"Your mommy is very wise."
"I know. Did you know that purple is the best color? Lisa says blue is better because it's more common, but common is boring. Purple is special."
Nina sets down her cup and launches into a new topic without pause.
"Clouds aren't purple, but they should be. Do you think clouds taste like cotton candy? I think they do, but Lisa says they're just water and water doesn't taste like anything."
"Have you tried tasting water?"
"Water is boring. Like blue."
"I see your point."
She chatters endlessly, jumping between topics with the chaotic logic of a four-year-old: the ladybug she found yesterday and named Gerald (I don't flinch at the name, I don't), whether butterflies dream, why shoes have to have laces when velcro is clearly superior.
I play along, smile at the right moment, pretend to sip tea with exaggerated appreciation.
The performance should be easy. I've been performing for five years. I've worn masks so long I sometimes forget what my real face looks like.
But something about Nina's unguarded trust makes my chest tight in ways I don't want to examine. She looks at me like I'm safe. Like I'm good. Like I'm someone worth trusting.
I am none of those things. But Lisa is different.
She doesn't join the tea party. She sits across the room with her coloring book, crayons arranged in precise chromatic order—red bleeding into orange bleeding into yellow, a perfect rainbow gradient.
Her small hand moves with meticulous precision, filling in a picture of a butterfly without ever straying outside the lines.
But her eyes—pale and watchful—keep drifting to me. Not suspicious exactly, something deeper. Like she's cataloguing data points, searching for patterns only she can see.
"Lisa, do you want to join us?" I keep my voice light, non-threatening. "There's room for one more at the table."
She shakes her head slowly. "I'm coloring."
"That's a beautiful butterfly. I love the colors you're choosing."
"It's a monarch." She says this with quiet authority. "Monarchs are orange and black. But I'm making it purple because Nina likes purple."
"That's very thoughtful of you. Making something special for your sister."
Lisa's eyes meet mine, hold. "You ask a lot of questions."
The observation hits me like cold water. "I do. I'm curious about people. Is that okay?"
"Sarah asked questions too. But hers were different." She returns to her coloring, her voice matter-of-fact. "Yours sound like you're looking for something."
I force my expression to remain warm. "What do you think I'm looking for?"
"I don't know yet." Her crayon moves in careful strokes. "But I'll figure it out."
I have spent years learning to be invisible, forgettable, unremarkable. The kind of person who slips through rooms without leaving impressions, who smiles and nods and fades from memory the moment she's gone.
Lisa looks at me like she's already memorized every detail.
It's unnerving, terrifying. It reminds me of myself at that age—quiet, observant, always watching because watching was the only way to understand a world that kept shifting beneath my feet.
That night, in my apartment, I sit at my desk and open the journal I've kept since Lora's funeral.
Five years of plans, observations, evidence. Five years of feeding the fire that keeps me moving forward.
Every page is filled with Lora's memory—her sacrifices, her exhaustion, her love. Every page reminds me why I'm doing this.
My pen hovers over the blank page.
‘The children are innocent.’
I write it once. Stare at the words. Write it again.
‘The children are innocent. The children are innocent.’
My hand trembles. I force it to still, force myself to continue.
‘Remember why you're here. Remember Lora. Remember what he took from you. These children have a mother who loves them, a father who protects them, a life full of everything Lora never got to have. That's not their fault. But it's not nothing either.’
‘Xander Hale built his empire on bodies. Lora was one of them. Remember that. Remember her closed casket. Remember her empty grave. Remember standing alone in the rain because she'd sacrificed every friendship, every connection, every piece of herself—for you.’
The children are innocent. So was Lora. I close the journal. Press my palms against my eyes until I see stars.
The words stare back at me through the darkness—black ink on white paper, a prayer and a warning wrapped into one.