Smile, baby. Men like Julian can’t stand a frown. It makes them remember they’re monsters. Last night, Gina found the key.

At the bottom, she pulled the cord for the single bare bulb.

She wanted to scream. Instead, she smiled. Because smiling was the second rule—one her mother had taught her before she disappeared.

She waited until 3:00 AM, when Julian’s breathing behind his bedroom door became slow and heavy as a hibernating animal. Then she crept down the carpeted stairs, the key clutched so tight it bit into her palm.

“She left us, Gina,” he said each morning, setting a single placemat across from his own at the long oak table. “But I won’t leave you. That’s not the kind of man I am.”

“That you’re not your mother’s daughter,” he said. “Not really. You’re mine. Have been since you were a child. I just needed her out of the way to make it official.”

And found Julian standing at the top of the stairs, blocking the light.

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