Page 13 of Cruel Obsession

The shift in her voice—playful to careful—makes something in my chest constrict.

“Yeah.” I rinse the mug, watching the last swirl of coffee disappear down the drain. “Like my dad.” It hurts to remember that I’m all he has left now.

She reaches across the counter and squeezes my wrist. “Give him my love.”

“I will.” I turn off the water. Then head to get dressed before leaving the apartment.

Of course, traffic is a mess.

I sit in stop-and-go gridlock on the highway, fingers drumming against the steering wheel, trying not to look at the time. Trying not to think about how long it’s been since my lastvisit. It wasn’t all that long ago, but I always feel guilty about not spending enough time with him.

The car in front of me has a bumper sticker:Twins are twice the blessing.

My breath catches.

I look away. Focus on the license plate. The rust spot near the bumper. Anything else.

But my right hand moves on its own, reaching for the bare spot on my left wrist. There used to be a bracelet there—cheap silver with a tiny heart charm. Debra had the matching one. We’d bought them at a craft fair when we were sixteen, giggling over how cheesy they were, how we’d wear them forever.

I took mine off the day she disappeared.

Haven’t been able to put it back on.

The traffic clears. I press the accelerator too hard, and the car lurches forward.

Don’t think about her, Mirabel.

Not today.

But she’s always there. A shadow at the edge of everything. The empty chair at holidays. The phone number I still can’t delete. The face I see every time I look in the mirror.

My throat tightens. I blink hard, focus on the road, count the exits until mine.

One. Two. Three.

By the time I pull into my father’s driveway, I’ve almost convinced myself I’m fine.

But the house looks wrong.

I cut the engine and sit there, staring. The paint is peeling near the roofline. The garden—Mom’s garden, the one she used to tend every weekend when Debra and I were kids—is overgrown, weeds choking what used to be rose bushes.

When did that happen?

Dad was always fastidious about maintaining it after she died.

I climb out of the car and head up the walk. The doorbell doesn’t work. Hasn’t for years. I knock instead.

He takes too long to answer.

When the door finally opens, I forget how to breathe.

“Mirabel!” His smile is too big. Too bright. “You’re early. Come in, come in.”

I step inside because my legs are moving, but my brain has stalled out.

He’s thin. Not the kind of thing that comes from deliberate weight loss or skipped meals. This is something else.

His shirt hangs off his shoulders. The collar gapes around his neck. His face is all sharp angles and shadows—cheekbones jutting, eyes sunk too deep, skin stretched tight.