The Girl in the Guest Room Has a Secret

§PROLOGUE

The last thing I heard was my own scream.

A sound torn from my soul as I watched my daughter, Daisy, seize on the floor.

Her birthday candles, still flickering on the cake, cast dancing shadows on her face.

One moment, she was making a wish, her cheeks puffed out, eyes squeezed shut in concentration.

The next, her eyes shot open, wide with a terror I couldn't comprehend.

Blood, thick and dark, streamed from her eyes, her nose, her ears.

Then she went still.

The paramedics said it was an aneurysm, a one-in-a-million tragedy.

But I knew better.

As grief crushed the air from my lungs, I saw her—Holly, our newly adopted daughter, standing in the doorway.

She had jumped from the fifth-floor balcony just minutes before Daisy blew out her candles.

They found her on the lawn with nothing but a few scratches.

And now, she stood there, a faint, triumphant smile on her lips as she watched the life drain from me, too.

That's when I knew.

It was her.

It was always her.

§01

My eyes snapped open.

The scent of brewing coffee filled the air, the familiar Saturday morning hum of the dishwasher a low thrum in the background.

I was in my kitchen, standing by the island.

My heart hammered against my ribs, a wild bird trapped in a cage.

It wasn't a dream.

It was a memory.

A memory of a future I had already lived, and a death I had already died.

"Mommy, look!"

I turned, my breath catching in my throat.

Daisy.

My Daisy, alive and whole, sat on a stool at the kitchen table, her small hands meticulously clicking LEGO bricks together.

She was building a little house, her brow furrowed in the same determined way it always was when she concentrated.

She was six.

Today was the day before her birthday.

The day it all started again.

"It's beautiful, sweetheart," I managed, my voice raspy.

Just then, a small figure appeared in the foyer.

Holly.

She stood there, her small frame swallowed by the oversized sweater we’d bought her, her dark eyes wide and innocent.

"Good morning," she said, her voice a soft whisper.

My husband, Trevor, walked in behind her, ruffling her hair.

"There's my little trooper," he said, his voice thick with affection. "Feeling more at home today?"

Holly nodded shyly, but as she stepped into the kitchen, her ankle knocked against the sharp corner of the shoe cabinet.

A tiny, almost unnoticeable bump.

"Mommy!"

The shriek tore through the peaceful morning.

It wasn't Holly who cried out.

It was Daisy.

She dropped her LEGOs, her hands flying to her own ankle as she toppled from the stool.

She writhed on the floor, her face contorted in agony, a mirror image of the memory seared into my brain.

"Daisy, for heaven's sake," Trevor started, his face clouding over with annoyance. "It's Holly's first day. Don't start acting out."

He hadn't seen the bump.

He only saw our daughter, crying on the floor for no apparent reason.

But I saw it.

I saw everything.

And this time, I knew exactly what to do.

I walked past my screaming daughter, past my confused husband, and straight to the broom closet by the back door.

I pulled out the old wooden broom.

Then I turned, my face a mask of cold fury, and marched toward Daisy.

"I'll give you something to cry about," I snarled, raising the broom high. "You want attention? You've got it!"

§02

Trevor's jaw dropped. "Abigail, what the hell are you doing?"

Daisy stared up at me, her tear-filled eyes wide with confusion and fear.

I didn't want to do this.

Every instinct screamed at me to drop the broom, to rush to my daughter and hold her, to absorb her pain into my own bones.

But the memory of her blood on the birthday cake was a fire in my gut.

I had to know.

If Holly's pain transferred to Daisy, did it work the other way around?

Was this a two-way street?

My gaze flickered to Holly for a fraction of a second.

She stood frozen by the doorway, her face a perfect picture of childish fear.

But her eyes... her eyes were cold, watchful, and utterly devoid of emotion.

She was studying me.

*Swish.*

I brought the broom down, aiming for Daisy's leg but pulling back at the last second so the bristles landed with a soft, harmless smack.

It was pure theater.

"Stop it!" I shouted, my voice cracking with fake rage. "Stop this pathetic act right now!"

I hit her again, another gentle tap hidden by my wild swing.

Daisy cried harder, more from shock than pain.

I risked another glance at Holly.

Nothing.

No flinch. No gasp. No sign of transferred pain.

My heart sank.

It was one-way.

The curse was a one-way weapon, and my daughter was the only target.

"That's enough, Abby!" Trevor grabbed the broom from my hand, his face white with anger. "Have you lost your mind?"

He threw the broom aside and scooped a sobbing Daisy into his arms.

My plan had failed, at least the experimental part.

But the other part, the psychological part, was just beginning.

I had to make Holly believe that Daisy was no longer a threat to her position in this house.

I had to make her think that I, the mother, was now on *her* side.

I took a deep, shaky breath and turned to Holly, forcing a smile onto my face.

"I'm so sorry you had to see that, Holly," I said, my voice dripping with false sympathy.

"She's just not used to sharing the attention."

I walked over and knelt down in front of her.

"Let's go see your new room. You tell me if you don't like anything, and we'll change it right away."

§03

Holly’s face remained a placid, unreadable mask.

There was no flicker of discomfort, no sign that she'd felt even a ghost of the broom's impact.

My stomach twisted into a knot of cold dread.

This was worse than I thought.

Just as I was about to stand, Holly did something I never expected.

*Thump.*

She dropped to her knees, the sound sharp and heavy on the hardwood floor.

Instantly, Daisy shrieked again, clutching her own knees, fresh tears streaming down her face.

A fine sheen of sweat broke out on her forehead.

"Auntie, it's my fault," Holly cried, her voice trembling as she began to crawl toward me on her knees. "I took her room and her parents' love. Please don't hit my sister. If you have to hit someone, hit me!"

The deliberate, grinding motion of her knees on the floor sent waves of agony through Daisy.

This wasn't an accident.

This was an attack.

And she was doing it right in front of me.

"Get up," I said through gritted teeth, hauling her to her feet.

I shot a look at Trevor, who held Daisy tightly.

"Take her to her room," I ordered, my voice sharp. "She needs to calm down."

Trevor, for once, didn't argue. He just gave me a look of pure disgust before carrying our daughter away.

"You don't need to worry about Daisy," he said over his shoulder, his voice cold. "She’s just spoiled. She needs a firm hand."

I led Holly to her new room—what used to be Daisy's room—and pretended to fuss over the bedding.

"Don't pay any attention to him," I said, faking a conspiratorial whisper. "He doesn't understand."

I needed to test it again, to be absolutely sure.

As I turned to leave, I "tripped," my hand shooting out to brace myself against the wall.

I made sure to slam my palm, hard, right where I’d tapped Daisy with the broom.

I watched Holly’s face.

Still nothing.

Trevor appeared in the doorway. "What are you doing now?"

I ignored him, my mind racing.

Why wasn't it working? Where was the flaw in my logic?

I stood up abruptly and stormed into the hallway where Daisy was now standing, her face tear-stained.

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