He wasn’t acting like himself.
He wasn’t fighting with his siblings, who were unusually quiet.
Callie sat silently, pushing her breakfast around her plate.
There was no brutal fight to the death over the bathroom.
No constant bickering about cereal.
Zach wasn’t kicking his siblings under the table to start arguments.
And I didn’t have to shout once.
It was far *too* quiet.
“Jonas.” I spoke up, looking up from my iPad. It was *too* quiet.
Which meant my children were either sick, or something was brewing.
Jonas, my eldest at sixteen, was usually the instigator.
But he couldn't even look me in the eye.
“What's going on?” I set down my iPad, and across the table, Zach flinched, gaze glued to his bowl of untouched cereal.
Callie ducked her head, thick brown strands hanging in her face.
I knew this stance.
I knew my children. Too quiet, and *guilty.* Just like five years ago when they shattered my Mom’s vase playing The Floor is Lava.
They'd *broken* something.
I sighed, noticing the atmosphere. Jonas and Zach were clearly trying to stay silent, and Callie was one squeak away from singing like a canary. “All right, as long as it's not your grandfather’s urn, I don't care what you've broken, as long as you fix it.”
“Dad’s hurting us.”
At first, I didn't even hear my son. I was too busy reaching across the table and grabbing maple syrup for my pancakes.
But then he said it *again*, stabbing his fork through his breakfast. His voice choked up. “Dads *hurting* us.”
Zach’s head snapped up, narrowed eyes glued to his brother. Frightened.
“What are you *doing*?!” He hissed. Zach straightened up with a tense smile. “It's okay, Mom! Jonas is just—”
“He's *hurting* us.” Jonas whispered, curling into himself. His eyes found mine. Hollow. Broken. How did I not notice? How did I not see the shadows under his eyes?
The agony creased between his brows?
“I'm not staying silent anymore,” he whispered. “You two can. But I'm not.”
Jonas glared down at the table. “I… I fucking *can't* do this anymore."
He broke into sobs that immediately broke my heart.
I stood and aimed to wrap my arms around my son, but the second I touched him, he flinched away, eyes wide, almost feral.
He shoved me back, diving to his feet. “No, get away… get away from me!”
Ignoring him, I wrapped my arms around him, and after fighting me, screaming and sobbing at me to get away, he melted into my shoulder, sniffling.
I stayed very calm, but my chest was aching.
I pulled away from the hug, trying to smile.
“Show me.” I said, steadying my voice.
I couldn't scream. If I showed my children I was scared, I would scare *them*.
“Mom—” Callie spoke up.
“Callie, stay here.” I said. “You too, Zach.” I turned to my son.
“Tell me everything, okay? Everything, sweetheart.” I grasped his shoulders. “I'm not mad, and I promise I *believe* you.”
Jonas nodded, and ran upstairs.
I followed him on shaky legs, my heart in my throat.
Jonas led me inside his room he shared with Zach.
“When you go to bed, Dad comes in our room and makes sure we’re restrained,” Jonas lifted up his pillows, and there, looped around his bed frame, were chains.
Jonas turned to face me. “Ever since we tried to run, he's chained us to our beds.”
“You tried to run *away*?” I choked out. “Why—”
Thick bile crawled up my throat when my son stepped in front of me, his expression crumpled. “Mom,” he whispered. “There's something…. I need to tell you.” Jonas grasped my shoulders, his nails digging in.
Harsh. “But you can't freak out, all right? You can't call Dad. Just *listen* to me.”
I nodded, breathless, as he took my hand and led me back downstairs.
“Five years ago, a man approached me on the street in LA. I was fifteen, and trying to be an actor,” he said, leading me out into the back yard. “He said I would be paid in full every week. Five hundred dollars. For one simple job.” Jonas let go of my hand.
“And all I had to do was… pretend to be your son. Jonas.”
Jonas’s hand slipped from mine. “But then he *stopped* paying us,” he whispered.
“We tried to leave. Tried to call the cops, but he was forceful. He punched Zach in the face, and drugged our drinks at night. He started chaining us up when you weren't here— and now, we're prisoners."
He sputtered. “I'm not even from here! I’m from Texas. I ran away to LA because I *thought* I wanted to be an actor. But I’m done playing a fucking dead *kid*.”
Jonas ducked his head.
“We just want to go home, Mrs McCarthy.”
Jonas shook his head. “Mom.” He corrected himself.
“So, we’re going to go.” Zach’s voice startled me.
He was standing behind me, grasping hold of Callie’s hand.
“I'm sorry for your loss,” he whispered. “But we’re *not* your children. We're not even kids! I'm nineteen years old.” He nodded at Jonas. “Get your shit, Jack. We’re going.”
Jonas nodded. He gave me a quick hug.
“Thank you for saving us,” he said. “And I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs McCarthy.”
I stood, numb, as the three of them started toward the fence.
And I was reaching into my jeans, and pulling out my gun.
Something inside me exploded, and I let out a shriek of laughter.
I started forwards, pressing the gun into my sweet daughter’s head.
“Stupid kids,” I spoke through gritted teeth.
I wasn't losing them *again*. I buried my children once.
Never again.
“Your father ran the auditions,” I said, clicking off the safety. I lowered the barrel to Callie’s calf. “Run, and I’ll cut off your legs.”
They froze, and I took pleasure in my next words, “But who do you think *chose* you?”
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