VANESSA
As if it were the last thing I’ll ever do, I press myself to my grandmother’s body, cradling her head in both hands, straightening her robe as if care alone could give her breath back. My hands shake with desperation—but not from fear; I’m shaking with rage and grief. The living room smells like gunpowder and cold coffee. I’m not moving. I’m not leaving her.
“Get up,” a voice orders behind me.
I don’t obey. I kiss my grandmother’s icy forehead. The guy grabs me by the hood and drags me off the armchair; I claw at the floor, cling to the armrest, to anything. “Let me go!” His hand clamps the back of my neck, wrenches my arm, and forces me to my knees.
“What the hell are you doing?” another voice breaks in from the doorway.
I look up and the nightmare takes shape: the brown hai
