The house was quiet again, but Orla didn’t trust the silence.
She stood at the lake’s edge barefoot, the wind tugging her hair into her mouth. Behind her, the house still bore scars—splintered wood, blood-stained floors, Jakob’s drawings on walls that had witnessed too much.
Stanley stepped up beside her, his hand brushing against hers.
“She’s not dead,” Orla said.
“No,” he agreed. “But she’s gone for now.”
“She’ll crawl her way back out. Women like Clara don’t stay buried.”
He looked out at the water, jaw tight. “Then we’ll bury her deeper next time.”
Orla looked at him. “Would you kill her for me?”
Stanley didn’t flinch.
“I already have.”
The next morning, Jakob clung tighter than usual, refusing to leave her side even when Stanley made pancakes. Orla watched him—how still he w
