I threw myself against the wood, pounding on it with my fists.
"Let me out! George! Open the door!"
Silence.
Then, from the other side, I heard Donna’s voice, low and sweet.
"Don't worry, darling. I'll take care of you. Let her rot in there."
Footsteps faded down the hall.
I slid down the door, burying my face in my hands. I was trapped. My baby was dead. My husband was a monster. And my sister was the devil. They had stripped me of everything—my child, my dignity, my freedom.
But as the tears fell, something else began to rise in the darkness of my heart.
If they wanted a villain, I would give them one.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. My stomach churned, but the thought of food made me nauseous.
The lock clicked again.
I didn't move from my spot on the floor. I watched as the door opened and Donna slipped inside, carrying a tray with a bowl of soup and a glass of water.
"Eliza?" she whispered, her voice dripping with that sickening, sugary concern. "You must be hungry. I brought you something."
"Get out," I rasped, not looking at her.