“Sibby, did you know her?”
She turns to me, a frown tugging down her lips.
“What did she look like?”
“Blonde hair, brown eyes. Two front teeth were crooked. She had a beauty mark on the corner of her mouth, too.”
She works to swallow, but eventually nods her head. “Yeah, I knew her. She was my sister. I mean, all the children were my siblings. Daddy was the only one allowed to get anyone pregnant…” she trails off, seemingly dumbfounded.
That… actually makes a lot of sense—Sibby and Sydney coming from the same cult. Now that I think about it, their mannerisms are very similar. Bizarre, creepy, and their maturity stunted. They’re both murderous psychos, but at least Sibby has a heart of fucking gold, whereas Sydney’s was ashen.
Her expression drops, and she looks at me with all the seriousness in the world. “She tried to kill you? She was the one that kept hurting you?”
Thinning my lips, I nod.
“I’m sorry, Addie. It’s my fault she ever ended up there.”
Frowning, I say, “Sibby, it wasn’t your fault.”
“It was,” she insists. “She had nowhere to go because I killed Daddy. All of them were left alone. She would’ve never—”
I grab her hand, squeezing it tightly. “Sibby, you couldn’t have known any of that would happen. You did everyone a favor by killing that man. He was a demon, remember?”
Her lip trembles, but she nods. “Sydney was, too, and she probably smelled like a rotten egg. I’m glad you killed her.”
I peck her cheek, hoping to rid her of any lingering guilt. “Go on upstairs. You did great, and we got everything we needed. I jus
t have one more question to ask.”
She smiles and skips up the stairs, sadness forgotten.
I train my gaze on Francesca. “What happened to Molly?”
Her brows pinch with confusion, so I clarify, “She was a captive back in 2008. She wrote in the journal, and I found it inside the floorboards in my room. I started writing in it, too. It’s actually why Sydney was going to kill me. I was planning to escape, and she found out by reading that journal.”
Her expression sours, and I can almost see the memories flicking across her gaze.
“She escaped. The first and last girl to get away… until you,” she says, muttering the last part with indigence.
A smile curls my lips, and pride fills my veins.
For Molly and for myself.
“Thank you.” Clapping my hands, causing the three of them to startle, I offer them a huge smile. “It’s time.”
Francesca’s golden-brown eyes round with confusion and fear. Not so long ago, we stood in opposite shoes. Drowning in helplessness and sorrow, wondering how this could be happening to me. There she stood, staring down at me with the same expression that I now wear.
She showed me no mercy. And I will return that favor tenfold.
Maybe she did care, but not enough to save me from herself.
“Time?” she echoes, her voice breaking.
My grin widens further, not bothering to hide just how vindictive I feel.
“For the Culling,” I supply, my voice dipped in honey and sugar. “And you, my dear, are the prey.”
Imposters syndrome—something many authors deal with from time to time. When we accomplish something we never thought possible, things we only ever dreamed of, those are oftentimes the most difficult moments to grapple with.