Chapter 1
Xandria – age 13
My bulky dark green noise-canceling earmuffs in place, I count my breaths and pretend the world is empty and quiet. It never is. Even with the tight pressure in my head, I can still hear Ms. Cortez discussing my future with the two strangers. No doubt, having a tough time explaining my shortcomings in a way that doesn’t scare them off.
My feet swing back and forth beneath the old, rusty metal seat, the legs screeching every time they scrape the linoleum. The air tastes stale, like dust and disinfectant, but under it all is the faint copper tang of nerves that doesn’t belong to me.
“Xandria has been with us for over two years. She’s had a challenging time adjusting. God knows what this child has been through—no memory, no trace of family history. It’s not a situation most foster families have, or want, to take on. I’m glad you’re committed to her care. She’s not an easy child, but she’s a good kid. She needs a safe, nurturing environment.”
A woman with a harsher tone replies, “Yes, we understand, and we’d like to help her. As stated before, your...our church will support her in any way we can’t—which we’ll gladly accept. And I’m sure she’ll appreciate being able to come back and visit you as well.”
Her voice has edges, like chipped glass. I taste her words before I understand them: dry, papery, too sweet, the way artificial sugar clings to the tongue when it’s trying too hard to pass as the real thing.
A man’s voice adds, “And of course, we’d like to see if she’s a good fit for our family. You’re aware of our history. Our struggles with conceiving due to Lina’s infertility.”
“Mmm, yes, Richard,” Ms. Cortez answers. Her tone is far colder than when she addresses his wife.
Ms. Cortez is cold, yet she’s nice enough in my book. She doesn’t have that ugly smell or taste that tells me someone isn’t being honest. No sour rot at the back of my throat. No metallic buzz on my tongue. The dark shimmer that lets me know people are rotten, that they have evil inside, is nowhere near her. If I squint my mind’s eye, her outline is soft, edges hazy, not rimmed in that oil-slick black that clings to the worst ones.
Of all my special qualities, I don’t regret this one. Knowing that not a single person can hide their evil intentions from me has helped me survive this curse. I won’t question it again.
I hope the people she’s been talking to don’t have either of those things. If they do, I know I won’t be safe or cared for in their home. Nova won’t be happy.
And when Nova’s not happy, everyone around me pays.
Her presence curls at the base of my skull, restless, like a shadow pacing behind frosted glass. She hums under my skin, low and warning, as if she’s already decided something about these strangers that I haven’t yet dared to see.
Though there are times even she can’t protect me from everything and everyone. She can’t protect me from the madness in my head, for example.
My head has no memories, so it conjures up insanity instead. My brain and heart work together to create a new world that pushes us to become more. More than what I have. More than what I want. Sometimes I think the world we make together is sharper and more real than this building with its flickering light and chipped paint.
I’m desperately looking for someone or something to make me feel wanted. That’s all it is—there’s no other explanation for my lack of memory or for not knowing who gave me up and why. A child with no clue where they came from, sitting in a chair that hurts their back, and pretending not to listen to the adults deciding their fate.
That is the only explanation for the extra skills I have. For the loud voices. For the ability to feel or taste lies. And, most importantly, for the way I can see a person’s evil—or the absence of it.
The worst ones glow in my vision, thin veins of darkness spiderwebbing under their skin, pulsing with every lie they tell. With Ms. Cortez, there’s nothing. With these strangers, I’m afraid to look too closely.
“Insanity.” That’s what my last foster family called it, and they made sure I never forgot.
Maybe this time will be different. Maybe if I’m less me, if I focus less on the loud voices, I’ll never overhear things I’m not supposed to. And I’ll never again make the mistake of trusting someone with that kind of darkness in them.
I should’ve known better. I just wanted to finally try to understand myself. To feel less like an outsider, an obligation, and more like a person you can trust. Maybe even love.
Love like I love Nova. Love like I can feel Nova loves me—fiercely, possessively, the way a shadow clings to the body that casts it.
It should be enough to feel that, but my greedy heart wants more.
Always more.
What a greedy, stupid heart.
