My family locked me in the basement to give birth. Days later, they returned to find a dark red liquid seeping from the door. As my mother screamed, a voice whispered behind her, “Looking for me?”
My mother leaned around his shoulder, her manicured hands clamped over her mouth, tears ruining her immaculate makeup. Samantha stood paralyzed behind them both, her eyes locked in horror on the massive pool of red liquid staining the antique Persian runner in the hallway.
“It’s a 1982 Bordeaux, by the way,” I informed them continue reading …
