Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

"ESTELA AMADOR?"

The driver approaches us at the airport with a sign that reads LETICIA GUERRA, my nurse's name, as my own would draw too much attention.

Yet it's my name he calls on his approach, clearly recognizing me from the news.

"Where is Doctora Brálaga?" asks Nurse Leticia in a guarded tone.

"I don't know. I'm with a car service," he says in decent English, with only a slight accent.

He doesn't look like the typical driver. He wears skinny jeans, aviator shades, a blue surgical face mask, and a charcoal zip-up with the hood over his head.

My nurse frowns with uneasiness. She was given a companion ticket to accompany me on the flight to Spain, but this is as far as she comes. Her return trip is in a few hours.

I stick out my hand to her in farewell, so she'll know it's okay to leave.

"Oh, put that down," she says, and my joints stiffen as she reels me into a hug.

My first embrace since—well, in seven months.

"You are so young, Estelita," she whispers in my ear. "Don't give up on the world so soon." Then she retrieves a small pill container from her pocket and offers me my medicine for the final time. I pop the meds into my mouth and take a swig from my water bottle.

"Twenty-five voices were silenced for good," she says, more serious than I've heard her. " But you still have yours. "

I wait until I've fallen into step behind the driver to spit out the pills.

The fog rolls in as the castle comes into view.

It's a thin film of mist that makes me feel like I'm entering a dream dimension.

We've been driving through northern Spain for two hours, but it's only now that castillo Brálaga's silhouette burns into the horizon. From here, it looks like nothing more than a dark speck in the corner of my vision.

If only it were farther away.

The last time I rode in a car, I was being shuttled for questioning by the NYPD, FBI, CDC, and a bunch of other acronyms. It was the same script with all of them:

"My name is Estela Amador. My parents are Olivia and Raul. We're subletting a place in Asheville, but we live on the road. We came to New York City because I begged them to bring me here."

I begged.

It's my fault.

I feel my pulse slow to a crawl, like my body is losing power and shutting down. I lower the window until it cuts just below my eyes and press my cheekbone to the cool glass, letting the wind whip my face. Its gentle slaps try to revive me…

But you can't reawaken a corpse.

"?Todo bien?"

I stare at the driver in the rearview mirror. I'd nearly forgotten him. For a fragmented instant, I could almost believe I was in the back seat of my parents' ancient Subaru, watching the world from my usual vantage point.

"?Necesitas algo?" he presses. I don't know what he's saying, but he looks like the Invisible Man with his hood, sunglasses, and surgical face mask on. It's not even sunny out.

"Hay una gasolinera donde voy a llenar el depósito y allí podrá tomar algo, aunque sea un poco de aire."

I nod in assent just so he'll leave me alone. It's annoying that he's speaking in Spanish now, when at the airport he spoke perfect English.

The truth is, I should have spent the past few weeks studying Spanish in preparation for my move here—but if I had, coming to Spain would have felt too much like an actual decision, and I might not have gone through with it.

Outside, the fog is fading, revealing that up ahead the ground grows teeth. Forests serrate rolling hills, and perched on a peak overlooking the tree line is a black dot.

My new home.

I can't see the community of Oscuro yet, but I know from my online search that the colorful patchwork of small houses with sloped rooftops is tucked into the castle's side. The town is so tiny, I had to zoom in as far as possible to reveal its name on the map.

The first result that popped up when I searched for Oscuro was its translation to English— dark . I couldn't find a website or any kind of social media presence for the town. It doesn't even have a Wikipedia page.

But the castle does.

Castillo Brálaga

Located in northern Spain, this Gothic construction was built in the late 1200s by a wealthy man about whom everything has been forgotten, except his surname.

The estate has never been sold, only handed down through generations of the Brálaga bloodline. Over the centuries, it has developed a sinister reputation.

The home has been unofficially dubbed "la Sombra" by locals because the town of Oscuro lies in its shadow. It's rumored that bad luck plagues its inhabitants, sparking a superstition that the castle is cursed.

There's only one hyperlinked citation, and the page never loads.

Once, I would have relished unraveling this riddle. Christie, Chandler, Capote —Dad and I used to play a game where we'd read the same detective novel and circle the page number where we cracked the case; then we'd swap copies to see who got there first.

But now I'd give anything to exchange my mystery for a choose-your-own-adventure book where someone else could make all my decisions for me.

Your parents are dead.

To remain at the Rainbow Pediatric Mental Health Center in DC, which will kick you out in two weeks when you turn eighteen, turn to page 6. To move to Spain and live with an estranged aunt you've never heard of, turn to page 23. To jump into a time machine and undo the past seven months…

Try the science-fiction aisle.

"Ya podrá ver el castillo a lo alto. Es esa sombra lejana en la boca del bosque."

The driver disconcerts me again with his presence. Since it doesn't sound like he's asking a question, this time I don't nod.

I may not be able to see his eyes in the rearview mirror, but I've felt his gaze on me for most of the drive. Nurse Leticia warned me that as the sole survivor of a tragedy that made global headlines—what the media called the Subway 25, for the number of dead—I would draw attention. But that didn't prepare me for the ogling at the airport, or the pointing of phone cameras, or the way strangers on the plane whispered my name like they knew me.

I turn pointedly to the window again, hoping the driver takes the hint that I don't want to talk. I stare out for so long that the castle grows from a black dot to a pointy blob. I saw in the Wikipedia photo that its defining feature is its sole tower—an arrow aimed at the stars.

Given the lack of traffic, we'll probably make it there before sunset. Only I'm not ready for this ride to be over.

Home has never been a destination for me. It's momentum .

My earliest memories are riding in the back seat of our car and drinking in the vast blueness of the Pacific Ocean. Mom was a freelance journalist, Dad a private investigator. They were always chasing the next case or story, so we never lingered anywhere long.

The road is as close to a homeland as I have.

I used to believe Mom and Dad were too free-spirited for a conventional life. I figured they wouldn't discuss their parents or pasts with me because they had fallen out with their families and were waiting until I was older to fill in the details.

It wasn't until they died that I learned just how naive I had always been.