It was hidden in the false bottom of her mother’s jewelry box, underneath a strand of fake pearls. The key was small, brass, and unlabeled. But Gina knew exactly what it opened: the basement door.
Then everything went red.
“Don’t worry, Gina,” he said, reaching for her wrist. “I’m the keeping kind.” gina valentina pure taboo
“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.” It was hidden in the false bottom of
Now her mother was gone. Vanished three weeks ago with nothing but a note that read: Don’t look for me. Then everything went red
Gina Valentina learned to ignore the rot. She’d lived with it since she was twelve, when her mother married Julian Cross—a man with soft hands and a hard stare, a collector of rare books and even rarer rules. He kept the house immaculate. He kept the thermostat at sixty-eight degrees. He kept Gina’s mother quiet with pills and promises.
