3. Talon

3

TALON

THIRTEEN YEARS OLD

T hrough narrowed eyes, I watch the new girl from my spot on the stairs. She’s crossed-legged in front of the TV, her dark hair falling around her tiny shoulders like some innocent little halo while she colors in her book. She has a naive vibe, like she doesn’t know what will hit her.

Heavy footsteps thud from the kitchen. Mr. Wilson’s shadow stretches across the doorway, and I notice Lena tense up. Smart move. She’s already picking up on the vibe but not learning fast enough.

“What’re you doing there, girl?” His voice has that sharp edge that makes my jaw clench tight.

“Just coloring, sir,” she says, sounding small and unsure.

“Shouldn’t you be doing something useful? These floors won’t sweep themselves!”

I grip the handrail, watching as she scrambles to gather her stuff and drops her red crayon in a panic. It rolls under the couch, forgotten.

“I’m sorry. I’ll clean right away.” She almost trips over herself getting to the utility closet.

Mrs. Wilson appears behind Mr. Wilson, her smile so fake it could be used in a horror movie. “Now, dear, don’t be too hard on her. She’s still adjusting.”

Yeah, right. I know her sweet act is just another weapon. I’ve seen how quickly it turns into something nasty when no one’s looking.

Jamie stomps down the stairs, shoving into my shoulder on purpose. “Watch it, freak,” he mutters.

I don’t even flinch. My eyes stay locked on Lena, who’s struggling to hold onto the broom that’s too big for her. She doesn’t belong here in this den of wolves. She’s too pure, too untouched by the kind of darkness festering in these walls.

A week is all it took for the Wilsons to show their true colors. But Lena doesn’t get it yet. She still believes Mrs. Wilson’s fake nice touches and whispers mean something. She thinks Mr. Wilson’s anger can be dodged if she’s good, quiet, and useful enough.

But she doesn’t realize that it will never be enough.

I lean back against the stairs, memories rushing in. Sarah was the first one—they had her broken in six months. I found her crying in the bathroom one night, blood dripping down her wrists. Then there was Maya, who tried to run three times before they sent her back. And Emma... Emma just faded into nothing over time, like a lightbulb burning out.

The broom gets snagged on the rug, and Lena stumbles. Her face goes red as Mr. Wilson scoffs from his armchair. She quickly rights herself, determination carved into her small frame as she keeps sweeping.

There’s something different about her, though. The others would cry themselves to sleep, but Lena? She’s quiet. I’ve seen her at dinner, how she watches everything, taking mental notes. The way her eyes narrow when Mrs. Wilson gives Jamie extra while we get scraps. The timing of her bathroom breaks to avoid Jamie’s stupid pranks.

But will it be enough? This house has a way of smashing spirits, turning light into shadow. I’ve seen it happen too many times.

Mrs. Wilson walks past Lena, her heels clicking on the floor, not even looking at her. “Make sure you get under the furniture, dear,” she says, her voice dripping with fake sweetness.

Lena drops down to her knees, peering under the couch. I catch a glimpse of defiance when she reaches for the red crayon, pocketing it instead of putting it away like Mrs. Wilson would expect.

Maybe this girl’s got what it takes to stick around.