What does Gladys want now? The thought echoed through my mind, laced with a mixture of irritation and concern. My sigh filled the room, a tangible manifestation of my fatigue and the emotional toll of the day. Gladys's voice on the phone had been laced with urgency, yet the details she provided were frustratingly vague, leaving me to navigate the uncertainty of her cryptic message. It was a small comfort, at least, to know that she was alive and, by extension, that my parents were too, ensconced in their usual evening routine of consuming mindless television. Their world seemed untouched by Gladys's call, a stark contrast to the storm of thoughts whirling through my mind.
The urgency in Gladys's voice was undeniable, a rare seriousness that couldn't be ignored. She wouldn't summon me without good reason, knowing all too well my disdain for unnecessary drama. Her offer to come and collect me, though made with good intentions, was swiftly declined. The idea of being confined to a car, making small talk while my mind raced with possibilities, was less than appealing. Besides, the short walk from my parents' house promised a moment of solitude, a chance to breathe and gather my thoughts under the cover of night.
I slipped into my grey trackies and pink joggers, the comfort of the familiar fabric offering a small shield against the chill of the evening and the unease that settled in my chest. "Don't wait up for me," I called out to the living room as I passed by, my voice steady but my pace quick, eager to escape into the night. I didn't stop to see if my parents had heard me, nor did I glance their way. The possibility of getting drawn into a conversation, of having to fabricate a reason for my abrupt departure, was a detour I couldn't afford.
The evening's breath was a mix of cool whispers and unseen movements, a gentle reminder of the world's quiet stirrings beyond the confines of day-to-day life. I found myself easing into the rhythm of the night as I transitioned from a casual walk to a steady jog, the motion a physical manifestation of my attempt to keep pace with the racing thoughts within. The world around me blurred into a backdrop of shadowed outlines and silhouetted forms, each step bringing me closer to a destination fraught with uncertainty.
Less than a kilometre around the corner, the familiar silhouette of Gladys's house loomed into view, its imposing structure a stark contrast to the simplicity of our childhood home. Standing at the edge of the property, I couldn't help but marvel at the life Gladys had carved out for herself. The house, with its sprawling lawns and commanding presence, seemed too grand for a woman whose only companions were two cats. It was easy to jest about her becoming the archetypical crazy old cat lady, a character from a child's cautionary tale, her eccentricity a shield against the world's prying eyes. The thought teased the corners of my lips into an almost smile, a brief flicker of amusement in the moment.
Yet, as I approached, the weight of anticipation pressed heavily upon me, an invisible cloak woven from the threads of our shared history and the unknown future. The air seemed charged with the electricity of impending revelations, each step towards the front door amplifying the sense of a threshold about to be crossed.
Before I could gather my thoughts or prepare myself for what awaited, the door burst open as if on cue to my tumultuous inner state. Hands, firm and insistent, reached out, seizing my arm with an urgency that allowed no room for hesitation. I was propelled forward into the entryway, the door slamming shut behind me with a finality that echoed ominously through the house.
"Shit, Beatrix. What took you so long?" Gladys's voice, tinged with impatience and a trace of relief, cut through the tension like a knife as she hauled me unceremoniously across the threshold of familiarity and into the heart of her home. Her grip on my arm was unexpectedly strong, a testament to the urgency—or perhaps the desperation—behind this summoning.
"Don't 'shit' me," I retorted, half-hearted in my attempt to wriggle free from the iron clasp of sisterhood. There was a peculiar comfort in our bickering, a reminder of countless childhood squabbles that had somehow always found their way to reconciliation.
As we stumbled into the kitchen, the scene before me was one of controlled dystopia. The counter was cluttered with the detritus of what appeared to be a frenzied attempt at culinary therapy or perhaps just the aftermath of trying to drown worries in wine. "Here," Gladys pronounced, extending her arm towards me with a flourish that was both carefree and slightly forced. She pushed an already-filled glass of wine into my grasp, the crimson liquid sloshing perilously close to the rim.
As I took it, the weight of the glass felt oddly comforting, a solid reality in the midst of swirling emotions. I couldn't help but observe Gladys's glass, cradled loosely in her other hand. It held barely more than a residue, a few sips at most, glistening under the harsh fluorescent light. The deep burgundy of her drink was almost gone, absorbed by her stress or perhaps her need for solace. And judging by the slightly unfocused gleam in her eyes, it was clear this wasn't her first glass of the evening.
"Looks like the crazy has really come out tonight," I quipped, my voice laced with a wry amusement that I hoped would cut through the tension. The words tumbled out, louder than intended, echoing off the tiled walls.
"Beatrix, stop it! You know I hate that word," Gladys shot back, her tone a mixture of irritation and weary resignation. It was a dance we'd performed countless times, a balancing act between her sensitivity and my blunt observations.
I couldn't suppress a chuckle, a sound that bubbled up from deep within, tinged with a hint of cynicism. In the midst of our chaotic family dynamics, I found a strange solace in these exchanges. They were familiar, a reminder of our shared history and the complex bond that tied us together, for better or worse.
I took a gulp of the red wine, allowing the rich, velvety liquid to coat my throat, a brief escape from the impending conversation. "So, what is it that you have summoned me here for so desperately, my dear sister?" I asked, my tone softening slightly, infused with a genuine curiosity and a hint of concern. There was an underlying seriousness to my question, a readiness to peel away the layers of sarcasm and face whatever truths needed to be addressed.
"Jamie is gone!" Gladys blurted out, her voice cracking under the strain of panic. The words sliced through the tense air of the kitchen, as sharp and unexpected as shattered glass.
"Gone?" I echoed, my confusion mirrored in my furrowed brow. "What do you mean, gone?"
"He's gone. He's in Clivilius and he can't get back out," Gladys shrieked, the pitch of her voice climbing with each word. It was a sound I associated with abject terror, a primal fear that seemed to permeate the very walls around us.
"Clivilius?" I probed, a frown etching deeper lines into my forehead. The mention of that name sent a jolt through me, a mix of surprise and an unsettling sense of foreboding. How the hell does Gladys know about Clivilius? The thought hammered in my mind, echoing with the intensity of a warning bell.
"Yes! Clivilius," Gladys confirmed, her voice breaking on the name. "He went in there with Luke and Paul, and now Clivilius has them!" Her words tumbled out in a torrent of hysteria, painting a picture of desperation and despair.
"You sound like you've got Clivilius," I mocked, a weak attempt to diffuse the tension. I hoped that injecting some levity into the conversation would steer us away from the edge of panic. But my heart wasn't in it. The mention of Clivilius, a place shrouded in mystery and fraught with danger, gnawed at my sense of calm, unveiling a well of concern I wasn't ready to acknowledge.
In response, Gladys's hand darted out, seizing an empty plastic water bottle from the counter, and with a kind of frantic urgency, she hurled it at me.
"What the hell, Gladys!" I yelled, startled, the wine in my glass sloshing dangerously close to the edge. The water bottle hit the floor with a hollow thud, rolling away in silent accusation.
"Read it," Gladys instructed, her voice a mix of desperation and insistence. It was a command, not a suggestion, laden with an urgency that brooked no argument.
"Read what?" I asked, my irritation giving way to confusion. It was just a water bottle, an ordinary, inconsequential thing. I'd seen plenty of them before, discarded remnants of our daily lives, not carriers of cryptic messages.
"Just read it," Gladys pressed, her gaze locked onto mine, a fierce determination etched into her features. It was a plea, a silent entreaty for understanding.
Humouring my sister, I steadied my glass on the kitchen bench, its contents a dark, still mirror to the turmoil unfolding between us. I bent to retrieve the water bottle from the cold tile floor, rolling it between my hands, a mundane action offering a momentary distraction. The label, with its standard font and familiar branding, offered no hint of the extraordinary. It was just a water bottle, identical to countless others I'd discarded without a second thought.
And then, as if the world had shifted under my feet, I saw it. Hidden beneath the guise of normality was a message that froze my blood. My breath caught in my throat, and I looked up at Gladys, the bottle slipping from my grasp as if it had suddenly turned to ice. "What the hell, Gladys? Is this some sort of cruel joke?" The words tumbled out, laced with disbelief and a rising tide of anger. How could she play with such grave matters?
"I almost wish it were," Gladys replied, her voice a whisper of its former hysteria, a haunting resignation in her eyes. She seemed smaller somehow, weighed down by the gravity of the secrets we were unearthing.
I began to repeat the words aloud, driven by a compulsion to understand, to confront the reality laid bare before me. "Brody's death wasn't…" The words felt foreign on my tongue, a dark incantation unlocking a door I wasn't sure I wanted to open.
"Beatrix, don't!" Gladys screeched, cutting through my recitation with a sharpness that made me flinch. "Never say those words aloud," she demanded, her eyes wide with fear. It was more than a request; it was a plea, a warning of dangers I couldn't begin to comprehend.
I paused, a great lump forming in my throat, a physical manifestation of the fear and confusion swirling within me. Despite my sister's reaction, a morbid curiosity, a need to understand the depth of the abyss we were staring into, propelled me forward.
Regaining my composure, I whispered the rest of the message, as if saying it softer could somehow lessen its impact. "Brody's death wasn't an accident. I know why he was murdered. And so does Beatrix!" The words hung in the air, a spectre of accusation and revelation that wrapped around me like a shroud.
My eyes closed involuntarily, as if to shield me from the weight of my own thoughts. Images of that dreadful day surged forward—a cascade of memories I had tried to lock away. Jamie's warning, cloaked in urgency and fear. The unexpected visit from a man whose eyes spoke of violence, a knife glinting in his hand as he issued threats veiled in venom. The announcement from Gladys, a prelude to this moment of unravelling.
A single tear escaped, tracing a solitary path down my cheek. It was a testament to the chaos of emotions within—grief, fear, disbelief, and a burgeoning resolve. In the silence that followed, the kitchen felt like a sanctuary and a prison all at once, holding me in a moment suspended between past horrors and the uncertain promise of revelations yet to come.
"I think we'd better sit and talk," I suggested, my voice steadier than I felt. The room seemed to tilt slightly, the water bottle’s label now a symbol of the unravelling deception.
Gladys, seemingly unfazed, or perhaps just seeking solace in the familiar, poured herself another glass of wine. The bottle made a soft glugging sound as the dark liquid flowed into her glass. I'd only had a single sip of my own drink, yet somehow, in that moment, I found myself holding my glass out for a top-up too. It was an automatic gesture, one born from a desire to share in whatever semblance of normality we could muster.
I followed my sister into the living room, the wine glass cradled carefully in my hand. On a whim, I snatched the almost empty bottle of wine from the bench before I left the kitchen. The weight of it felt reassuring, a tangible connection to something other than the impending conversation about realms and secrets I was not sure I was ready to face.
Only once we were settled on opposite ends of the plush, white leather couch did we allow the silence that had cocooned us to break. The couch, a stark reminder of simpler times, felt like a chasm between us now. "So, tell me about Clivilius," I said, the curiosity gnawing at me. My voice betrayed a hint of the apprehension I felt, curious to know what my sister knew of this place that seemed more like a myth than reality.
Gladys glanced over at the almost empty bottle of wine sitting on the floor beside us, her expression unreadable for a moment. "I think we might need another bottle," she remarked, a half-hearted attempt at levity that didn't quite reach her eyes. With that, she got up and left the room, her movements sluggish, as if weighed down by the gravity of our situation.
I rolled my eyes and shook my head lightly, a wry smile tugging at the corners of my mouth despite the tension. I shouldn't be surprised, really. It was so like Gladys to seek refuge in the predictable, even when faced with the unfathomable. The gesture, simple and so quintessentially her, offered a brief respite from the heavy cloak of uncertainty that had settled around us.
As I waited for her return, the living room seemed to close in around me, the walls echoing with the silent screams of my unspoken fears. The plush couch, once a haven of comfort, now felt like a stage set for confessions, for revelations that could alter the course of our lives forever. And yet, amidst the turmoil, a part of me was grateful for this moment of pause, this breath before the plunge into the unknown depths of Clivilius and the secrets it held.
"So, tell me about Clivilius," I pressed, the weight of my curiosity grounding me as Gladys resettled herself on the couch, her movements deliberate. The fresh bottle of wine she brought back seemed like an unspoken acknowledgment of the long conversation ahead, its presence on the coffee table a testament to the mysteries of what we were about to unravel.
"Well…" Gladys began, her voice hesitant, as if the words she was about to utter were foreign to her, too large and complex to be comfortably vocalised in the cozy confines of her living room.
As Gladys unfolded the narrative of her last twenty-four hours—her interactions with Luke, the discovery of the Portal, the unimaginable realities it implied—I found myself sipping from my glass more frequently than I intended, the rich, bold flavour of the wine a sharp contrast to the complexity of emotions swirling within me. Each mouthful was a brief respite, and I felt myself being pulled deeper into the intricacies of a world I had only glimpsed through Leigh's guarded admissions.
My participation was minimal, a question here and there to steer Gladys back when her story meandered too far into the technicalities or when she seemed to lose herself in the recounting. But mostly, I remained silent, a sponge soaking up every detail, every nuance of her experience. It was a lot to take in, a testament to the depth and breadth of the secrets that had been kept from me.
Occasionally, Gladys would mention something—a specific detail—that sent a shiver down my spine, the hairs on my arms standing on end as if reacting to a cold draft. Each time, I found myself mechanically smoothing them down, a physical attempt to calm the storm of emotions these revelations stirred within me. These details resonated with eerie familiarity, echoes of conversations I'd had with Leigh. Leigh, who I knew to be a Guardian, had always been a fortress of secrets. The danger of his position was something I had come to accept, but the full extent of his Guardianship, the depths of the world he was entwined with, remained shrouded in mystery. He had shared with me the burdens of his duty, the weight of the responsibility he carried, but always there was a line he wouldn't cross, a boundary he wouldn't allow me to step over.
The Portal, a miracle of existence that Leigh was privy to, remained beyond my grasp. My desire to witness its wonders, to understand the full scope of its power and significance, was a longing Leigh consistently denied. "It's not something to be played with," he'd say, a note of finality in his voice, a barrier erected not from a lack of love, but from a deep, abiding sense of protection.
As Gladys spoke, the pieces began to fit together, a puzzle taking shape, but with each piece, the image that emerged was more daunting, more overwhelming than I could have imagined. The realisation that there were aspects of this world, this reality, that were so far beyond my understanding, yet so intimately connected to the people I loved, was a heavy burden. I was caught in the crossfire of an unseen war, a bystander in a battle that had chosen me, rather than the other way around.
We sat there, enveloped in a silence that seemed to stretch and warp the space between us, a tangible manifestation of the tension and uncertainty that had taken root. The living room, with its soft lighting and the occasional creak of the white leather couch beneath us, felt like a cocoon, isolating us from the rest of the world. My mind raced, grappling with the revelations Gladys had just shared, each word a puzzle piece in a picture that was simultaneously terrifying and mesmerising.
It seemed, from Gladys's account, that her understanding of Clivilius and the Portals was nascent, shaped by a whirlwind of events and Luke's explanations within the last day. She had witnessed the Portal, yes, but the awe of that experience might have blinded her to the true nature of its power, the dangerous allure of its energy that beckoned so seductively, promising wonders but harbouring untold perils.
I took another sip of wine, the rich liquid momentarily grounding me. Then, drawing in a deep, steadying breath, I braced myself for the plunge back into our conversation. "Well, I'm still not completely convinced," I ventured, my words deliberate, a mask to conceal the depth of knowledge and fear that churned within me. It was a gamble, keeping Gladys in the dark about my own encounters and insights into the Portals, a decision borne out of a protective instinct.
Gladys's reaction was immediate, her expression a mix of shock and disbelief. "Beatrix, how…?" she trailed off, her voice a mirror to the confusion that flickered across her face.
"I'm kidding," I laughed, the sound lighter than I felt. It was an attempt to inject some semblance of normality into the conversation, to step back from the edge of the precipice we were inching towards. "There's no way that anyone but Jamie could have known what was written on that bottle," I continued, grounding my jest in truth. For a moment, I allowed the conversation to drift away from the dark allure of Clivilius, seeking refuge in the more immediate mystery of Jamie's note. "I'd be very surprised if even you knew it.”
Gladys's response was tinged with relief, but a shadow of concern lingered. "I had no idea at all," she admitted, her vulnerability laid bare. "Why didn't you tell me?" Her question, softly posed, carried the weight of our shared fears and the unspoken bond that strained under the secrets we kept.
Why didn't I tell her? The question echoed in my mind, a reflection of my own doubts. The truth was, I had been navigating these treacherous waters alone. To share that burden with Gladys meant acknowledging the depth of the darkness I faced, and perhaps I wasn't ready to do that—to admit to myself, let alone to her, the full extent of the role that I had played in Brody’s death.
I shrugged, a nonchalant gesture that belied the turmoil churning within me. "It doesn't matter," I said dismissively, though every fibre of my being screamed that it did, in fact, matter immensely. I cast a probing glance at my sister, "Does anybody else know?" My question was laden with an underlying concern about how far the tendrils of our conversation about Clivilius had already reached. Gladys, bless her, had a reputation for being as secure as a sieve when it came to secrets.
"About the bottle?" Gladys queried, a hint of confusion lacing her words.
"No, about Clivilius, stupid,” I replied, my tone a mixture of playfulness and exasperation. It was a dance we had performed countless times, a balancing act between jest and seriousness.
"Oh, no, I don't think so," Gladys answered, her voice carrying a tremor of uncertainty. "But Beatrix, you mustn't breathe a word of this to anyone," she implored with a sudden intensity that caught me off guard. "You must keep this a complete secret.”
"People have a right to know," I countered, feeling the weight of responsibility press down on me. This wasn't just about us anymore; it was about the potential fate of humanity itself. My assertion felt hollow, even to my own ears, a parroted line from a debate I wasn't entirely convinced I believed in. Yet, I needed to gauge the depth of Gladys's understanding, to see if she grasped the enormity of what Clivilius represented. Leigh's words about Clivilius being a key to altering the course of human evolution lingered in my mind, a stark contrast to Gladys's apparent lack of awareness.
"Escape?" Gladys fired back, her disbelief palpable. “Absolutely not!”
The conversation hung between us, a delicate thread stretched to its breaking point. I was struggling not only to understand Gladys's perspective but also to reconcile it with my own burgeoning awareness of Clivilius's significance. Leigh's warnings echoed in my mind, a haunting melody of caution and revelation. I knew that Gladys and I were standing at the precipice of something monumental, a revelation that could unravel the fabric of our reality or weave it into something entirely new. And in that moment, the weight of our shared destiny felt both terrifying and exhilarating, a paradox that defined the very essence of our human experience.
"But Gladys…" I began, my voice softening, a plea for her to listen, to really hear me. I was trying to pierce through any walls she had erected, to reach the part of her that might understand the stakes we were dealing with. This wasn't just about keeping a secret; it was about understanding the potential ramifications of that secret.
Gladys cut me off with a sharpness that reverberated through the tense air between us. "There's more than one thing about you, Beatrix, that I could share with our parents if you open your mouth and you can kiss goodbye your free rent," she warned, her voice laden with an unspoken threat that hung between us like a guillotine blade, ready to sever the fragile peace we had maintained.
"Whatever. As if they'd believe you anyway," I retorted, my words coming out more defensively than I intended. Despite my outward display of indifference, a knot of anxiety tightened in my stomach. In the darker corners of my mind, I knew Gladys held a certain power over me, a catalogue of misdemeanours that could easily unravel the semblance of stability I had fought so hard to maintain. There had been incidents, brushes with authority that I had narrowly skirted, convincing myself of my own innocence with rehearsed lines and justifications. That expensive silverware accidentally slipped into my handbag as I left the restaurant table, I silently rehearsed the excuse, a mantra that did little to quell the rising panic at the thought of those episodes coming to light. I had no idea that it was in there, officer, honest. The words echoed mockingly in my head, a reminder of how close I had come to getting caught.
Gladys's glare did not waver, her eyes piercing through my defences as if they were made of glass. "And I'm not talking about the stolen silverware," she declared, her voice cutting through my flimsy rebuttals with surgical precision. The water bottle she held aloft was not just a container for liquid; it was a vessel for secrets far more damning than any petty theft. It was a tangible manifestation of the precarious edge upon which I teetered, a reminder of the deep, dark abyss of guilt that threatened to engulf me.
"Fine," I conceded, the word tasting like ash in my mouth. My face was a mask of tension, the muscles taut as I tried to maintain a veneer of composure. The confirmation I had been seeking, albeit not the one I had hoped for, was clear. Gladys was not yet prepared to delve deeper into the enigmatic and dangerous waters of Clivilius, and perhaps, neither was I. With a sense of resignation, I poured myself another glass of wine, the ruby liquid swirling in the glass a reflection of the tumultuous emotions swirling within me.
As I took a sip, the wine did little to quench the dryness of my throat or the thirst for answers that gnawed at my soul. The conversation with Gladys had opened a Pandora's box of implications, each more foreboding than the last. The realisation that we were caught in a web of secrets and lies, with stakes far higher than any of us could have imagined, was a struggle to wrap my head around. The weight of what remained unsaid pressed down on me, a silent spectre of the challenges that lay ahead. In that moment, the wine tasted of both surrender and resolve, a paradox that epitomised the complexity of our predicament.
A full bottle later, the edges of our reality had softened, blurred by the wine's insistent whisper that all could be forgotten, if only for a moment. The decision to destroy the label—a tangible piece of evidence of the unimaginable—felt like a rite of passage, a step into a pact of silence that bound us tighter than blood. Standing side by side at the kitchen sink, there was a solemnity to our actions, a silent acknowledgment of the permanence of what we were about to do.
I held the label delicately between my fingers, its edges crisp against my skin, a stark contrast to the fluid uncertainty that had characterised our evening. Turning to my sister, I found a resolve in her eyes that mirrored my own. "Do it, Gladys," I commanded, my voice steady, betraying none of the turmoil that churned within. It was more than a command; it was a plea for finality, for an end to the questions that threatened to consume us.
Gladys struck the match with a precision that belied the amount of wine we had consumed, the small flame a beacon of defiance against the shadows that lurked at the edges of our understanding. My gaze was transfixed by the bright glow, the way it danced and flickered with a life of its own. As she set the label ablaze, the fire took hold with a hunger that seemed almost personal, as if it too understood the necessity of its task.
I held onto the label for as long as I dared, the heat licking at my fingertips, a tangible reminder of the destructive power of secrets. And then, with a final act of will, I let it drop into the sink, where we watched in silence as it shrivelled into ash, the last physical proof of my secret reduced to nothingness.
"Nobody else needs to know," Gladys slurred, her words thick with the wine's influence and the weight of our decision. There was a finality in her statement, a closing of ranks that left no room for doubt or dissent.
I nodded, the gesture heavy with unspoken thoughts. If only Gladys knew the half of what happened that day, our current reality might be irrevocably altered. The secrets I harboured, the truths left unspoken, lay between us like ghosts, their whispers a constant reminder of the distance that secrets could create. In that moment, as we stood watching the last remnants of our secret turn to ash, I realised the precarious nature of our bond. It was strengthened by our shared silence, yet simultaneously strained by the weight of the unsaid.
Another half-bottle down, the evening had devolved into a series of mindless chatter, a desperate attempt to skirt around the enormity of what we had just done. The wine, once a facilitator of courage, now felt like an anchor, dragging my thoughts through a haze of incoherence. Gladys, ever the pragmatic one despite our earlier indulgences, decreed that I was in no state to navigate my way back home. "You're staying here tonight," she insisted, her voice brooking no argument. In my current state, the prospect of arguing seemed as daunting as a solo climb up Everest.
Grasping the side of the couch for support, I made an ungainly attempt to stand, my coordination betrayed by the wine's lingering embrace. The room tilted alarmingly, a carousel of furniture and shadows spinning before my eyes. I didn't bother with a protest; Gladys's suggestion, for all its imposition, was a lifeline I was all too ready to grasp.
Staggering towards the spare room felt like navigating an obstacle course designed by a particularly sadistic mind. Each piece of furniture, each doorway, presented a challenge, a barrier between me and the blessed oblivion of sleep. I was dimly aware of Gladys's presence, a silent sentinel ensuring I didn't succumb to gravity's mocking pull.
Crossing the threshold into the spare room, I barely registered the space around me. The details of the room, usually noted for their quaint charm or Gladys's unique sense of style, blurred into insignificance. Without a backward glance or a word of thanks, I closed the door with a quiet click, a barrier between me and the world, between me and the weight of our shared secret.
The bed welcomed me like a long-lost friend, its soft mattress a gentle reprieve from the night's turmoil. Collapsing into it, I barely had the energy to rid myself of my shoes before exhaustion claimed me. My head throbbed, a dull ache that seemed to pulse with every beat of my heart, a testament to the evening's excesses and the emotional rollercoaster that had accompanied them.
As sleep crept closer, drawing a veil over the whirlwind of my thoughts, I found myself adrift between awareness and oblivion. The significance of what we had done, what we had decided to keep hidden, loomed over me, a shadow that promised to stretch long into the future. Tonight, however, it was just Gladys and me, two sisters bound by a secret that was as much a curse as it was a bond.
