Jester's Whisper

CONTENT WARNING

This book contains graphic violence, explicit sexual content, and emotionally intense subjects, including themes of trauma, abuse, and psychological distress.

Nothing in these pages is softened. Nothing is turned away from.

This is a story about what people survive—and what that survival turns them into.

Reader discretion is advised.

JESTER’S WHISPER

S.A.V. NICHOLA

The game begins.

Copyright © 2026 by S.A.V. Nichola

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations used in reviews or scholarly work.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

First edition, 2026

Cover design by S.A.V. Nichola

Izzy Vol. I

Before

The smell of toast and butter fills the kitchen, mixing with the salt-heavy Miami air drifting in through the open sliding door. July mornings always feel like walking into a warm, wet towel, but our kitchen stays cool—marble floors, humming AC, and the small TV mounted above the coffee machine flashing the local morning news.

I sit at the counter in my Ransom Everglades basketball T-shirt, picking at the dry side of a piece of toast and scrolling through my cheer group chat. I’m supposed to be practicing concession shifts today. I pretend breakfast is the reason I’m still home.

Mom—Jessica—stands by the sink, flipping through fabric samples with one hand and stirring her coffee with the other—typical Jessica Solevack multitasking. With her pale blonde hair twisted into a messy bun and her blazer sleeves rolled up, she looks more like a fashion designer on a magazine shoot than someone’s mom making breakfast. Dad always says she’s allergic to sweatpants.

Dad—Atlas—sits across from me, uniform pants on, green T-shirt tight across his shoulders. He isn’t on deployment, but Marines never really turn off, not even in the kitchen. His black hair is shaved short on the sides, and his deep blue eyes flick from his plate to the TV every few seconds, like he expects breaking news to address him by rank personally.

I get my hair and eye color from him—long black hair down my lower back and deep ocean-blue eyes people assume are contacts. Mom swears the combination makes me look like a cartoon villain. Dad says it makes me look like I could survive boot camp.

I’m not doing either. I’ve got eighth grade coming up at Ransom Everglades—RE’s the kind of school that will hand a middle schooler an AP syllabus if you test high enough—with AP English, basketball, cheer, and concessions. That’s enough battles for now.

The news anchor’s voice shifts from the usual traffic-and-weather script to something tighter. Serious.

“—Miami-Dade police have reported a disturbing scene discovered in a private residence late last night. Due to the age of the minor involved, the department will not release a name or photograph at this time.”

Dad’s fork pauses mid-air. Mom’s spoon clinks against her mug.

The anchor continues, “Sources state that the minor was found alone with a deceased woman, believed to have been dead for approximately three days. Police describe the scene as, quote, ‘severely distressing.’ Authorities report the minor is physically unharmed and in custody for medical evaluation—”

My stomach drops, and I don’t know why at first. Maybe it’s the word minor. Maybe it’s the thought of someone my age stuck in a house like that. Alone. For three days.

Dad leans forward. “What the hell?” he mutters.

Mom sets her coffee down, eyes locked to the screen. “Oh my God…”

They cut to b-roll: police tape, a stretcher, and a dark house blurred out in the background. No name. No picture.

Then Mom’s phone buzzes on the counter.

We all jump.

Mom glances at the screen, and her whole face changes. She doesn’t scream. She doesn’t gasp. She just goes still, like someone hits pause on her entire brain.

“It’s Ginger,” she says softly.

I know that tone. That tone means this isn’t about fashion week or shipment delays.

Ginger isn’t just Mom’s assistant. She’s basically family. She’s known me since I was in diapers. She and her husband, Gil, and their son, Foster—we do vacations, birthdays, and barbecues. Dad comes when he isn’t deployed. When he is, Ginger fills in like it’s her mission assignment.

Mom swipes to answer. “Ginger? Hey, we’re—”

A choked sound comes from the other end. Mom’s eyes widen. Dad’s posture snaps upright—Marine mode.

“Whoa, slow down,” Mom whispers. “Just… breathe. Okay? Start over.”

I slide off my stool and pretend to get more juice so I can be closer. I’m not subtle about it.

Mom listens, hand pressed to her forehead, pacing the tile. “They haven’t released his name… No, I know… Ginger, I’m so sorry… Is he—?”

Her voice cracks. Mom never cracks.

Dad mouths, What? Mom shakes her head, tears building.

Finally, Mom whispers, “We’ll come. Yes. We’ll come right now.”

She hangs up and just stands there, staring at her phone like it betrays her.

Dad is already moving. “Is it Foster?”

Mom nods. One tear slips down her cheek. “It’s him, Atlas. He was the minor. He was the one in that house.”

For a second, it feels like my bones turn to water.

Foster—who spent spring break teaching me how to ollie on a skateboard. Foster—who always orders extra fries and steals my hoodie because it’s “comfier.” Foster—who just turned fifteen, right after his freshman year ended.

Dad grabs his keys. “We’re going over there.”

“Gil’s bad today,” Mom says, wiping her face. “Hospice is there. Ginger can’t—she’s falling apart.”

Dad glances at me. “Izzy, get in the car. Now.”

Normally, I would argue about being dragged into a grown-up disaster. But the image from the TV won’t leave my head. A kid alone for three days. A dead woman. No name released.

And now that kid isn’t a stranger.

He’s Foster.

I grab my hoodie and follow Dad out the door, heart pounding, already knowing whatever waits at Ginger’s house isn’t going to fit back into normal life again.

Ginger’s street looks bright and ordinary in the Miami sun—perfect lawns, trimmed hedges, kids’ bikes tipped over in driveways. But a silver hospice van sits at the curb, and that alone makes everything feel wrong.

Dad doesn’t say anything as he turns into the driveway. The AC clicks off, surrendering the car to the heat. For a moment, we just sit there, staring at the house as if it belongs to someone else.

“You can stay in the car if you want,” Dad says quietly.

I shake my head and unbuckle. “No.”

We walk up the path. White stones crunch under our shoes—Gil always did those himself, claiming landscapers “charge criminal rates for bags of rocks.” The yard is immaculate, and it makes the hospice van look even louder.

Ginger opens the door before we knock.

Cold air rushes out first—AC on full blast—then the smell: lemon cleaner with something sharper under it. Sterile. Hospital. It doesn’t belong here.

The dining room isn’t a dining room anymore. The oak table is gone, replaced by a hospital bed framed by machines. The chandelier overhead is covered with a white sheet to dim the light. A hospice nurse in pale blue scrubs checks a drip line, her face tired in a way that makes my chest hurt.

Gil lies in the bed.

His red hair, once thick and bright, looks thinner now. His green eyes are closed, his face tight against the pillow. An oxygen tube curves beneath his nose. His chest rises and falls slowly under a thin blanket, almost too quiet to see.

Machines beep and hiss around him, doing work his body can’t.

My brain scrambles for the real Gil—the one who owned The Court, the hotel franchise he talked about like it was alive. The one who strode through lobbies in tailored suits, two phones ringing at once, telling stories about guests sneaking miniature pigs into rooms and tipping every valet on the way out.

The one who made Mickey Mouse pancakes at five in the morning before football games, claiming it was “brand loyalty training.”

Gil isn’t supposed to be still.

“Thank you for coming,” Ginger whispers from behind us.

Her voice is hoarse. When I turn, she looks like someone has smudged her out. Thick red curls shoved into a bun that’s failing. Freckles across her cheeks and nose. Blue eyes swollen and rimmed pink, clothes clean but wrinkled, like sleep happens in fragments.

Dad hugs her immediately. “Of course, we came.”

She clings to him for a beat too long, then pulls back and wipes her face with the heel of her hand. “He’s upstairs,” she says, her voice catching. “Foster. He won’t come down.”

Dad nods, jaw tight. “Okay.”

Ginger turns toward the kitchen. Dad follows.

I slip behind them quietly. Adults talk differently when they forget you’re there.

The kitchen is spotless—white cabinets, marble counters, fake lemons in a bowl—everything exactly how Ginger always keeps it. Except now hospice sounds bleed into it: soft beeps and sighs that make my stomach twist.

Ginger sets an empty mug in the sink and grips the counter with both hands.

“It’s Alice,” she says.

Dad freezes. “Alice?”

I know that name—Ginger’s old friend from years ago. Alice used to show up at barbecues with Asher trailing behind, quiet and polite. Then one year, she stops coming. No one explains why. Adults never do.

Ginger blinks fast, like she can keep the tears in place if she moves right. “Foster was at her house. I thought he was with Asher. He’s there all the time.” Her breath hitches. “I should’ve checked. I just assumed. It was normal.”

Dad’s voice stays low. “What happened to her?”

Ginger stares at the sink, throat working. When she finally speaks, her voice cracks straight down the middle.

“The police say she was murdered.”

The word hits like ice water—shock so cold my brain doesn’t know where to put it.

Dad doesn’t speak right away. His face tightens, Marine expression slides into place like a shield.

“She was killed in her home,” Ginger whispers. “And Foster was there. I don’t know if he saw it happen, or if he found her after, or if he walked in later—” Her voice climbs, panic snapping through it. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything. And that’s what scares me.”

Tears slide down her cheeks. She doesn’t wipe them.

Dad steps forward. “Where’s Asher? Was he there too?”

Ginger nods, eyes spilling. “He should have been. The police asked Foster where he was. Foster just kept saying, ‘He’s gone.’ Over and over. He won’t say anything else.” Her mouth trembles. “They’re searching for him. Right now.”

My stomach drops so fast it hurts.

Asher isn’t just some kid. He’s part of us—lunch table, AP English, football bus rides, track lanes, concessions, birthday twin with Foster. Our triangle. Our Musketeers—if Musketeers do homework and share fries.

And now he’s gone.

Ginger presses her hands to her mouth, then lowers them. “Foster stayed in that house for three days, Atlas. Three days. With Alice’s body. No food, no water. And I didn't check because I assumed he was with Asher and Alice. And Gil is getting worse, and I’m distracted and—”

Dad catches her shoulders gently. “Ginger.”

She keeps going anyway, words pouring, like if she stops, she’ll fall apart. “He won’t talk. He won’t look at me. He won’t eat. I can’t reach him. And Gil…” Her voice breaks on his name. “Gil can’t help me anymore.”

Dad’s voice softens but stays steady. “I’ll go up.”

Ginger nods, wiping her face like it matters.

Then she notices me for the first time.

“Izzy,” she says gently, forcing her voice into something calmer. “Sweetheart, maybe sit in the living room, okay? We’re just trying to figure things out.”

“Okay,” I whisper.

I back out of the kitchen, past the nurse and the machines and Gil’s quiet breathing, and climb the stairs slowly. The steps creak under my feet, like even the house is warning me.

At the top, the hallway is dim. Foster’s door stands cracked open, a strip of warm light cutting across the carpet.

I stop.

No sound.

No pacing. No TV. No voice.

I don’t know if I should knock, or go in, or run back downstairs and ask permission. There aren’t rules for this.

So I slide down the wall across from his door and pull my knees to my chest.

Downstairs, Ginger cries quietly. Machines hum. The air conditioner kicks on again.

I stare at the strip of light and think:

Murder.

Gone.

Three days.

And somewhere behind that door, one of my best friends is silent—and the other is missing—and I don’t know how to make any of it make sense.

Please let Asher be alive.

Please let Foster talk again.

Please don’t let this be the end of us.

The house doesn’t answer.

It just breathes around me, filled with lemon cleaner and hospital air and the weight of everything that changes before any of us are ready.