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But wouldn’t a ten-year-old child believe a group of men slaughtering her parents were monsters?

Faces twisted in blurred shadows.

Growls and grunts rumbled out of their larger-than-life bodies as they tore into my family. A side effect of their exertion, not the sounds of something dark and evil.

Keep telling yourself that.

I shook my head. Deep down, I knew better.

I told myself it was a child’s imagination. Trauma. Something I never brought up in therapy in all the years after the incident.

Nobody talked about that sort of thing. In these parts, they either sent you to a mental institution or treated you with prayers as if you were demon possessed.

Funny how the higher power that could rid someone of demonic possession turned a blind eye to a frightened ten-year-old witnessing her parents’ murder in her own home.

“Lillian saw them too, Sweet Pea. Just like her mama.” Glassy eyes met mine. I didn’t know whether the watery eyes came from age or unshed tears. “Just like her daughter.”

“I don’t see anything.”

“You refuse to look now, but you saw them. That night, you saw them. You told me.” She placed her other hand over mine. I fought the urge to squirm in discomfort. I didn’t want to talk about this. “I may not be as sharp as I was then, but I remember.”

I looked away as Patricia stepped onto the back porch again. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does. You’re in danger.”

“How do you know that?” I looked back at Grandma. Why was I humoring this? Sighing, I asked, “Why am I in danger?”

“I don’t know, but I think what happened to Lillian and Greg was to protect you. Those things were after you, not them.”

“Things? Grandma, they were wannabe gang members. You remember what the police said. It was an initiation. They didn’t target us. They claimed it was a random act of violence, that the gang could have picked any house, but they picked ours.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“I…”

The police never captured the people responsible, and the case went cold.

Every July, I resisted the impulse to call the station and urge someone to look again and see if they’d missed something. Anything. Any sliver of evidence to prove the reality I tried to deny.

Two days ago, on the anniversary of my parents’ death, I dialed the station’s number but hung up before the second ring. Something felt different this year, but I couldn’t put my finger on what had changed.

“Raelynn, it’s getting late.” Patricia stood a few feet from the entrance to the gazebo. I hoped she hadn’t heard our conversation. “You should get going if you want to make it back to Raleigh before dark.”

I exhaled and turned, still holding Grandma’s hand. “I’ll be back next month, Grandma. Hopefully, I can come early enough so we can do a little shopping.” I leaned down, hugging her, breathing in her comforting scent of roses and peppermint.

“Be careful, my sweet girl. I love you,” she whispered before I pulled back.

“I love you, too.” Blowing out a breath, I added, “I’ll make sure to bring the biscuits next time, even if they look like a hot mess.”

She snickered, and her soft smile calmed my nervous heart.

We’d only managed lunch today, and I’d barely gotten any time with her. Maybe that was for the best. While I wanted every moment possible with her, if the conversation went further, she’d grow agitated, and Patricia would blame me—like always.

I gave Grandma’s hand one last reassuring squeeze before letting go and stepping into the yard. When Patricia’s gaze flicked down to my cleavage, her mouth turned down in a disapproving frown. I pulled my cardigan closed. The woman never stopped judging people.

“Do you have gas money?” Patricia scoffed as my brows rose in surprise at her sudden interest in my finances. “I can’t have you getting stranded halfway back to the city and calling here for help. Tim would throw a hissy fit.”

There it is.