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PROLOGUE
BEFORE
LAYLA
My heart was a heavy stone in my chest as I walked hand in hand with my case worker toward the looming group home. The gray sky mirrored my mood, and the air seemed colder than usual. It had been just a few weeks since I lost my parents, and the pain was still so fresh, it was an open wound that would never heal.
I didn't see how it could.
The building was old and intimidating, its tall brick walls casting a shadow over the entrance. I swallowed hard, gripping my teddy bear even tighter to my chest for comfort. I wished I could turn back, that this was all just a bad dream, that I could go home and my parents would be waiting there with open arms.
My case worker, Ms. Thompson, squeezed my free hand gently. She had kind eyes and a warm smile, but they couldn't chase away the sadness that clung to me like a second skin. "It's going to be okay, sweetie," she whispered, her voice soft and soothing. I nodded, even though I didn't really believe her.
I was here because there was no one who wanted me. She could say otherwise, try to be positive and comforting about all of this, but that was the truth. I was alone. I had no one.
As we stepped inside, the hallway seemed to stretch forever in both directions. The walls were a dull beige, and the fluorescent lights overhead buzzed like angry bees. It smelled kind of musty, like old paper and cleaning supplies. The place didn't feel very welcoming.
Ms. Thompson led me toward a door at the end of the hallway, her footsteps echoing in the silence. We entered a small office where a stern-looking woman sat behind a desk cluttered with papers. She had gray hair pulled back into a tight bun, and her glasses perched on the edge of her nose.
"Ah, Ms. Thompson," the woman said, her voice brisk. "This must be our new arrival." She glanced at me, her eyes briefly softening before pressing back into a tight line. Her sharp eyes bored into mine with an intensity that sent chills through my body.
"Yes," Ms. Thompson replied, her tone respectful. "This is Layla."
I shifted nervously from foot to foot, clutching my teddy bear even tighter. I wished Mom and Dad were here. They always knew how to make me feel safe.
The woman and Ms. Thompson exchanged a few whispered words that I couldn't quite catch. My heart raced as I strained to listen, feeling like they were talking about something important.
"I heard about her parents," the woman said, her voice low. "Such a tragedy."
"Yes. This one is definitely a more difficult case," Ms. Thompson replied, her voice filled with sympathy.
“Have they figured out why he killed her?”
I felt a lump forming in my throat, and I stopped trying to listen. They were talking about Mom and Dad. My eyes welled up with tears, and I tried to blink them away. I didn't want the women to see me cry.
I also didn’t want to think about Mom and Dad likethat.
After a few more whispers, the woman smoothed her gray hair back, even though there wasn’t a strand out of place in her severe bun. She stood and walked over to me before crouching to my level, her expression softening a little. "Hello, Layla," she said kindly. "My name is Mrs. Anderson. We're here to help you, okay?"
I nodded, my voice caught in my throat.
"Let's get you settled in." Mrs. Anderson held out a hand for me, and I instinctively grabbed it. It was cold and boney, nothing like my mom's hand. None of the strangers I’d been passed to since the police found me in our house had felt like Mom, though.
Mrs. Anderson didn't waste any time, leading me out of the office and down another hallway.
As I followed her, I wiped away a tear that had escaped, almost dropping my bear in the process.
The hallway we walked down was lonely feeling, each step echoing like a heartbeat in the stillness. Mrs. Anderson's footsteps were steady beside me, only a slightly reassuring presence as I ventured further into the unknown. The walls were lined with old photographs of children who had lived here before, their smiles frozen in time. I wondered where they were now.
Had they ever been happy?
We arrived at a door that Mrs. Anderson pushed open with a gentle creak. The room inside was small and simple, and cold. There were two beds with neatly made quilts, a desk with a chair, and a shelf with a few books. Dim light filtered through the curtains, casting a gray tinged glow over everything.
"This will be your room, Layla," Mrs. Anderson said, her voice kind. "You’ll be sharing it with Michelle. I’m sure she’ll be by soon and you guys can get to know each other. Feel free to do whatever you want to make it your own."
Staring around, it didn’t seem like Michelle had done anything to make it her own. My stomach trembled with even more nerves.
I looked around, feeling…grief. It wasn't my old room back at home, filled with familiar posters and the lingering scent of Mom's cooking. I knew I should be grateful to be here, since no one else had wanted me, but everything was wrong. The walls weren’t painted a soft shade of lavender, pictures of our little family’s adventures all over. The bed wasn’t overflowing with stuffed animals. And there weren’t flowers on the nightstand, like the ones Dad had brought me every week along with the ones he got Mom.
