33. Frankie

"There are my girls!"We hear Abigail's voice, oddly muffled and distant, before we even see her. The bright red front door swings open, and Abbi pulls us into a three person hug. It's a warmth I should feel comforted by, yet there's a tautness in her embrace that I've never felt from her before.

"Ma." Tori struggles, her words muffled against Abbi's shoulder.

"Let them breathe, Abbi," Andy chimes in, prying us apart with gentle hands. Her smile is wide, her cheeks flushed with the excitement of our arrival. Honestly, I've never seen anyone so excited to see me. "Well, I heard the game had a bit of a dramatic flare to it."

I snort, the sound more nervous than amused. "You could call it that," I comment, trying to keep my voice light.

Abbi finally releases us. "Inside, let's go." As she steps back, I notice she's wearing a muumuu, vibrant and patterned, which seems to amplify her already exuberant personality.

I shuffle into the living room, my senses immediately engulfed by the nostalgia that permeates Abbi's home. The walls are adorned with framed family pictures. Eclectic knickknacks fill the shelves, from antique vases to whimsical ceramic figures. The air is thick with the scent of something savory cooking in the kitchen, mingling with a faint floral fragrance that seems to linger in the corners of the room.

Tori flops down on the floral sofa, the cushions sighing under her weight. She tugs me down beside her onto the soft embrace of the well-worn fabric.

The clinking of cookware and murmur of Abbi's and Andy's voices drift into the room from the kitchen. The aroma intensifies, hinting at homemade bread and something else, something that reminds me of Sunday dinners from a life I never had. As I breathe in deeply, a fleeting, inexplicable chill passes through me, briefly overlaying the warm scents with something cold and shadowy. It's gone as quickly as it came, leaving me to wonder if I imagined it.

"So, spill," Tori says, her voice low but insistent, her eyes flicking toward the kitchen before returning to mine with a piercing intensity. "You've been off all day. It isn't just the game, is it? This feels like it's about those shadows you've mentioned before. What happened today?"

I never mentioned shadows to her before…

I bite my lip, tracing the floral pattern on the sofa arm with my fingertip. The fabric is soft, slightly pilled from years of use. "It's just…" I begin, my voice trailing off as I struggle to find the right words, especially considering her past with Bishop. There's more though. "I feel like I'm missing something." As the words leave my lips, a dull ache starts to form behind my eyes, the beginnings of a headache.

Tori's expression softens, her usual levity fading as she leans her head back against the couch, her eyelids fluttering closed. Her body seems to melt into the cushions, and I envy her ability to feel so at home, so completely relaxed in this familiar setting.

"I don't know exactly," I whisper. How do I even bring up what I'm thinking, what I'm feeling, any of it? I chew on my lip, shifting slightly to try and find a comfortable spot on the couch. Despite Abbi and Andy's warmth and hospitality, I still feel like an outsider, awkward and out of place.

Tori hums, a sound so soft I almost miss it. I think she's half asleep when she suddenly opens one eye and fixes it on me. "So," she murmurs so quietly I have to lean in to hear her, "what did you see tonight?"

"I don't know," I confess, pausing as a shiver races down my spine. Today, when the shadows moved, it wasn't like before. I didn't do it, it wasn't me. There was a beast, something fierce and familiar yet wholly terrifying. It felt like it knew me, like those shadows that have haunted me since I was a child. I wrap my arms around myself, the memory of the cold, dark presence swirling through my core still vivid and unsettling.

"Okay, we have bougie grilled cheese!" Abbi announces cheerfully as she emerges from the kitchen with a plate of sandwiches stacked high. The sight of the food, so lovingly prepared, momentarily distracts me from the turmoil inside.

I let the previous conversation slide as Abbi sets the plate down on the coffee table. Honestly, I'm just thankful for the change in conversation. I can't even begin to wrap my head around everything that happened, so I'm grateful for this moment of peace, this simple pleasure. "What is a bougie grilled cheese?" I ask.

"I baked the bread," Andy says, coming in behind Abbi with a glass in each hand. She hands one to her sister before they simultaneously sit in their respective chairs, mirroring each other's movements so perfectly it's almost choreographed. It makes me wish I had a twin, someone to share that kind of effortless connection with.

"There are three different kinds of cheese too," Abbi adds, her voice filled with pride. "Go on, try it!"

I pick up one of the sandwiches, the bread still warm and slightly crusty at the edges. As I take a bite, the cheese—sharp, creamy, and a bit tangy—melds perfectly in my mouth. The flavors fill me with a warmth that spreads through my limbs. "This is amazing," I tell them sincerely, the taste grounding me in the here and now.

Abbi claps her hands together, her delight palpable. "I told you she'd love it, Andy!"

Andy chuckles, her eyes twinkling with mirth. "It's the Gouda. Gouda changes everything," she quips, her laughter light and easy.

"You two are like some sort of cheese wizards," I say, managing a smile as I swallow another mouthful. The homemade bread adds a whole new dimension to the meal. "How did you even come up with this?"

"It was a happy accident, really," Abbi confesses with a shrug. "One day we just threw together leftovers from a fancy cheese board Andy brought over."

"Best accident ever," I say, reaching for a second sandwich. This simple moment of sharing food, laughter, and light conversation feels like a warm hug, the kind that stitches up the frayed edges of a rough day. For a brief second, I allow myself to feel like I'm a part of something, less like an orphan and more like someone with a place to belong, even if it's just for the evening.

Andy nods in agreement, the soft light from the overhead lamp casting a warm glow on her face. "We're all about happy accidents here. Remember that time we tried to make homemade pizza and ended up with what we affectionately called the cheese crater?"

Abbi bursts out laughing, the sound loud and infectious, filling the room with a sense of homeliness and mirth. "Oh, don't remind me. We couldn't decide if it was a culinary disaster or masterpiece."

"I think Frankie needs to hear this story," Tori interjects with a smirk, clearly enjoying the lighter mood as much as I am. Her eyes sparkle with mischief and fondness for these shared family tales.

"Well," Andy starts, leaning forward, her face alight with the glee of reminiscence, "we had this brilliant idea to load the pizza with every type of cheese in the fridge. Mozzarella, cheddar, some blue cheese…"

"Don't forget the ricotta," Abbi adds, chuckling. "That was the real mistake. It just went everywhere."

"It was like a cheese volcano," Andy continues, her hands animated as she describes the scene. "It just bubbled up and then—boom—collapsed in the middle. We ended up with a pizza dough bowl filled with molten cheese."

I laugh, the image vivid and hilarious in my mind. The laughter feels light, a pleasant echo in the cozy room. "That sounds… pretty delicious, actually, despite the visual."

"It was," Abbi says with a nod, her eyes twinkling. "We scooped it up with bread sticks. Turned our failure into a sort of cheesy bread fondue."

"It's all about perspective," Andy says, winking at me. Her words seem to carry a deeper meaning, one that resonates within the walls of this home. "Turn your disasters into opportunities."

"That should be your motto," I suggest, taking another bite of the grilled cheese. The sandwich is comfort food, the kind that not only fills your stomach but somehow reaches into your soul, soothing and warm.

Tori, who's been eating silently, finally speaks up again, her voice soft yet clear in the quiet room. "Speaking of opportunities, remember the garden party last summer? When Abbi decided to turn the lawn into a dance floor?"

"Oh, heavens," Abbi says, rolling her eyes with dramatic flair. "That was an adventure. We had string lights and everything, but then it rained."

"But you danced in the rain anyway," Tori points out, her smile wide as she recalls the memory.

Andy laughs, the sound rich and full. "We did. Turned the garden into a mud pit, but it was fun, wasn't it? Dancing there, with the rain pouring down—it felt like we were characters in a movie."

I smile, feeling a warmth that has little to do with the grilled cheese. It's comforting, hearing about these snippets of life, simple joys and mishaps turned into cherished memories. It makes me feel closer to them, like I'm part of their circle, a fleeting feeling of belonging that fills a space I didn't realize was empty.

Abbi reaches over to refill my glass, her movements graceful and motherly. "You're always welcome here, Frankie. Always part of our little misadventures."

Gratitude swells in my chest, and I nod, feeling too full of emotions to speak. "Thanks," I say, my heart fuller than my stomach, touched by the inclusion.

As the laughter dies down and the last remnants of grilled cheese are polished off, Abbi stretches, reaching her arms toward the ceiling. "Well, girls, I think it's about time we turned in. Big day tomorrow, and you both need your beauty sleep."

Andy nods in agreement, her gaze softening as she looks at Tori and me. "That's right. You girls head on up. There's fresh sheets on your bed, Tori."

Tori yawns, the action contagious, and I find myself covering my mouth as a yawn escapes too. "Thanks, Mom, Aunt Andy," Tori says as we start gathering the plates and glasses, stacking them in the kitchen.

"Leave those, leave those," Andy insists, shooing us away from the sink with a gentle hand. "Go on up. We'll handle this mess."

With a grateful smile, Tori leads me upstairs to her room, a cozy space with walls covered in posters of rock bands and the corners stuffed with piles of books and clothes. It feels lived in, warm, and unmistakably Tori.

Tori tosses me a soft, oversized T-shirt and a pair of shorts. "Here, you can wear these. Bathroom's down the hall if you need to brush your teeth or whatever."

"Thanks," I murmur, clutching the clothes to my chest, suddenly overwhelmed by the normalcy of this. It's just like in the movies or the books I read. The simplicity of the gesture, the casual intimacy of sharing clothes and space, adds another layer to this unfamiliar feeling of home.

"Alright, you can sleep on the bed with me or on the floor," Tori says, pulling her blankets down. Her bed, larger than the twin at the dorms, offers more than enough space for both of us. Her invitation somehow bridges the gap between guest and family, and in that moment, I feel a little less like an orphan and more like a friend, a sister.

Licking my lips, I stand there, frozen. The last memory of sharing a bed brings back a surge of chilling fear. The last time I was this close, it was with the woman who kidnapped me. Back then, fear gripped me tightly, but now, in the safety of Tori's room, the fear is absent, replaced by a hesitant curiosity. Slowly, I sit down on the bed, my movements cautious. When my stomach doesn't churn with anxiety, I exhale a breath I hadn't realized I was holding and glance at Tori, who is watching me with a curious yet gentle gaze.

"The bed is fine," I say, clearing my throat as I slide under the covers. Tori mirrors my actions on the other side of the bed. She reaches over to switch off the lamp, and the room is instantly bathed in the soft, silver glow of moonlight spilling through the window.

We lie in silence for a moment, the serene quiet broken only by the distant hoot of an owl and the subtle rustle of leaves outside. It feels surreal, this gentle transition from my usual solitude to a moment filled with warm, comforting friendship.

"I've never done this before," I confess softly into the darkness, my voice barely a whisper.

"Done what?" Tori's voice is sleepy but laced with curiosity.

"Had a sleepover like this, at a friend's house." I swallow, my throat tight with a strange cocktail of sadness and contentment. "It's nice."

Tori turns to face me, her eyes glinting in the low light. "Really? I'm glad you're here, Frankie. It's nice having someone around without having to pretend to be something I'm not."

"It's different," I admit, the words spilling out with an honesty I didn't expect. "I always wondered what it was like… having a normal teenage life, even though I'm no longer a teen. I feel like I'm playing catch up. You know, friends, sleepovers, talking all night about... whatever."

Tori laughs softly, a sound that is comforting and inviting. "We can talk about whatever you want. Boys? Music? The spooky stuff at school?"

"Maybe all of it," I say, a smile playing on my lips. I feel a flicker of excitement at the prospect of just being normal.

"Deal," Tori whispers, a yawn breaking her sentence. She seems to drift toward sleep with ease. "Maybe in the morning."

"Okay," I murmur, listening as Tori's breathing slows to deep, even breaths.

How does one fall asleep so fast like that?

Not tired at all, I push myself up against the headboard, my eyes wandering around Tori's room. Her mom has been inviting me here for the last two years, and this is the first time I took them up on it. Tori's room is huge. It's a stark contrast to the cots or beds I had in the foster homes—that was all I had, and here, Tori has an entire room.

I'm not even jealous, more thankful that she didn't grow up the way I did. No one deserves that kind of childhood, which was the entire reason I began my little vigilante spree. Something that, for the first time since escaping Valerie, I haven't done in months.

Valerie.

My stomach twists just from thinking her name. I try not to think about her. When I do, I get hot, sweaty, and all I want to do is?—

What is that?

I lean forward, peering into the dim light. At the foot of the bed, it looks like a rising shadow. Doors open and close downstairs, and I jerk my head toward the door, my heart racing as Abbi's and Andy's whispers drift up the stairs. When I look back, the darkness seems to spill over Tori's legs.

That's not me.

I call my own shadows and lift my hand, watching as they swirl around my fingertips. Reaching down, I touch them against the other shadows. An inky blob reaches back.

There is no way.

The darkness at Tori's feet slowly creeps up and over her, blanketing her. Her breathing deepens, and she slips into a deeper sleep as soon as they do this, as though they are protecting her in her slumber.

I sit there for a long moment, just watching, confusion pooling in my head as I watch. My entire world slowly begins to fall apart as the pieces of the last two years begin to fall into place.

The whole puzzle isn't put together, but all the pieces are upright.

There is but one staggering realization—I may not be as alone as I think I am.

Why does that bother me more than anything else?