Veronica’s blood ran cold.
She marched to Esther’s room, her heart pounding, her voice barely steady.
“What did you say to Arthur?” she asked, trying to keep her fear at bay.
Esther looked up slowly, her face blank.
“I was only joking,” she replied flatly. “He’s just being a baby.”
No remorse. No emotion. Just a cold, distant voice.
The chill that passed through Veronica in that moment was unlike anything she had ever felt.
Lying in bed that night, she stared into the darkness, her mind spinning with doubts.
She had dreamed for years of having a daughter.
But now she wasn’t sure who—or what—they had brought into their home.
That night, Veronica approached James again, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Something isn’t right,” she said, wrapping her arms tightly around herself as if trying to hold her fears in place.
James gave a tired smile and shook his head. “She’s never been anything but sweet with me.”
And he wasn’t wrong.
Esther was affectionate with James—clinging to his arm, laughing at his jokes, curling beside him like the picture of perfect childhood.
Around him, she was playful, gentle, obedient.
There were no threats, no sarcasm, no cold stares.
Just warmth.
Veronica’s isolation deepened.
James’s unwavering confidence made her feel foolish, as if she were imagining things—seeing ghosts where there were none.