Phantom

June 8, 1944

Of all the days I’ve walked into Parsons Manor, I’ve never entered without being greeted by sparkling blue eyes.

For the past two weeks, I’ve visited her every day while Sera and John were away, spending hours with her until it was time for her family to come home. And as each day passed, I’ve watched her timidness melt away as she grew accustomed to my presence. Trusting, even.

I’ve been careful with her, focusing on baring ourselves for one another emotionally rather than physically. I’ve been honest about needing to keep my job a secret for now, and she’s respected it. However, I did assure her I’m not visiting her because of John’s debts. At least, not anymore.

Otherwise, we’ve stripped ourselves raw and have shared secrets and dreams that neither of us has confessed to another soul. She’s told me everything about herself, from her strict upbringing at the hands of her religious mother and the neglect of her absent father to her sightings of the ghosts that haunt Parsons Manor and how they both frighten and excite her. My obsession for her has deepened to love, and I care little about how short of a time I’ve known her. I only care that I spend the rest of my life with her.

Today, I stop short, taking in the view of Genevieve sitting in her rocking chair, staring out the window sightlessly, hands crossed in her lap; her journal is nowhere to be seen. It’s late morning. The sunshine glows on her face, yet even beneath the bright rays she radiates darkness.

Concern pinches my brow, and I slowly approach her, cautious of startling her out of her musings.

“Mia rosa?” I ask softly.

After a few seconds, she drags her gaze to mine. Her stare is empty, and though her black hair is curled to perfection and her lips are painted red, she looks nothing like my Genevieve.

I close the distance between us, adrenaline and worry unfurling in the pit of my stomach. My heart races as I sit on the stool in front of her and grab hold of her hand, frowning when I feel how cold it is.

“What’s happened?” I ask, struggling to keep my voice calm.

Instantly, her bottom lip trembles, and tears spring to her eyes. There’s no thought to my actions, only instinct. I stand and scoop her from the chair and carry her over to the couch. Setting her on the plush velvet, I coerce her to lie down before lying next to her, pulling her into my embrace. She’s stiff but doesn’t resist, and she lays her head on my shoulder as she tucks her feet beneath her.

“My love, please tell me what’s happened,” I plead, tucking a curl behind her ear.

A soft sob ruptures from her throat, prompting her to slap a hand over her mouth to contain it. She shakes her head as if she’s disappointed in herself and trembles in my hold while she works to calm down. All the while, I remind myself that I can’t kill someone if I don’t know who they are yet.

It does little to ease the murderous rage building inside of me or the need to get up and wrap my bare hands around someone’s throat as I watch the life drain from their eyes.

“I-I’m fine,” she chokes out finally.

I crook a finger beneath her wobbling chin and gently lift her watery gaze to mine.

“Tell me the truth,” I demand gently.

She sniffles, then hiccups. Before she can cover her mouth again in embarrassment, I grab hold of her hand and squeeze.

Sighing, she closes her eyes. “John,” she whispers, her words cracking with unshed tears. The explosion of my fury is instant, and it takes everything in me to keep myself planted on the cushion. “He came home sauced again last night.”

Inhaling deeply, I take a few seconds to compose myself before I ask, “Did he hurt you, mia rosa?”

Her response is delayed, but she ultimately nods. Another deep breath, though blackness licks at the edges of the little vision I have left.

“Will you tell me what he’s done?”

“Ronaldo, I don’t . . . I don’t want you to hurt him.”

If she’s fearful for his life, then he’s done something that deserves retribution. And that . . . That has a rage so black polluting my insides, my organs feel like they’re wilting and rotting beneath it.

“Genevieve.” The word is stern though not sharp. I refuse to force her if she truly doesn’t want to share, but if she chooses not to, I will have to ask John myself.

She sighs. “He . . . he just demanded a marital duty from me, and I told him no, but he didn’t listen so—”

I stand so abruptly, she gasps. I hold up my pointer finger at her, silently asking for a moment.

My vision is completely snuffed. The average human is capable of a wide range of emotions, yet I can’t seem to feel a single one outside the urge for violence. There’s a beast I keep contained deep inside me. It’s a side of me I scarcely let free. And for the first time in years, I’m on the verge of letting it loose.

John Parsons is a dead man.

There are many men who were raised to believe that they have ownership of their wives’ bodies. And there are many women who are raised being told to give that autonomy away. And they do—simply because it’s expected of them.

But that is not how I was raised. According to my mother, my father didn’t stand for the mistreatment of women, and neither do I.

For John to—

I close my eyes and try to breathe.

For John to force himself on Genevieve is one of the worst things a man can do to a woman. He violated her. He stripped her of her humanity and took something from her she was not willing to give.

“Ronaldo.” The whisper is soft, and I hate that she feels the need to placate me.

It takes a few more moments for my limited vision to return. When it does, I sit beside her and pull her back into my embrace.

“I’m sorry, my love,” I rasp, placing a gentle kiss on her forehead. “I lost my mind.”

She peers up at me with sadness, her thick black lashes heavy with tears and clumped into little spikes. Though the redness in the whites of her eyes brightens her blue irises into a startling shade. Her smile is somber as she asks, “Have you found it?”

I shake my head. “Not since the first moment I saw you,” I confess quietly, brushing the pad of my thumb over her red bottom lip. “I don’t understand how anyone could ever hurt you, Genevieve.”

She raises a hand, gently brushing her fingers over my chin, my stubble scraping against her fingertips.

“You hurt people, don’t you, Ronaldo?” she asks. Her tone isn’t accusing but curious.

“Yes,” I admit, unable to lie to her.

“Will you refrain from hurting John for me?”

Again, I close my eyes, searching for my next breath. How can I deny her when I know it would break her heart?

You can’t.

I know.

“Why? Tell me why.”

“Because he’s the father of my child,” she responds softly. “And as much as it pains me to look at him, I don’t wish to see him dead. We’ve been married for so long, and while these past few months have opened my eyes to how truly unhappy I’ve been in our marriage, it would devastate my daughter if she lost him, and that hurts worse. That hurts so much worse than anything he could ever do to me. I know it’s hard to understand, but even if not for me, please do it for Sera. She’s the only reason that truly matters.”

I’ve never met a mother as selfless as her.

My mother lost herself after my father died. She held on for years, but by the time she passed, I no longer recognized her.

I didn’t hate her for loving him so much, but I resented her for loving him more than me.

While I may never know what it’s like to have a child of my own, I do understand that kind of love. And it’s exactly that love that has me conceding. I dip my chin in acquiescence.

“Promise me,” she whispers. “Promise me you will never play a hand in his death.”

One day, I will tell her just how close her husband has come to death, though not by my hands. He only just paid back Tommy, plus interest, but I imagine he will be back at that table in no time, digging himself into yet another hole.

The muscle in my jaw pulses, but I force myself to speak the words. “I promise, mia rosa.”

Her fingers brush over my cheek again, almost in reverence.

“Distract me. Tell me something about you I don’t know,” she pleads softly.

It takes a few moments of sifting through memories, trying to find something of substance before I recall the scar on my hand.

I hold it up for her, showing her the thin, white line spearing across the top of my palm.

“I got this from saving a baby raccoon when I was fifteen,” I tell her. Her eyes widen, interest sparking in her gaze. “He was caught in a chain-link fence and screaming at the top of his lungs. He was struggling and hurting himself. Poor thing freaked out when he saw me coming.”

“Did he bite you?” she asks.

“Thankfully, no. The metal was digging into his sides, and I was trying to keep him from hurting himself more when I was trying to get him out. Got really cut up in the process and earned me this gash.” Her fingers trace over it gently. “But once he was free, he just stood there and stared at me.”

“Really? He didn’t run off?”

“Quite the opposite. He followed me around everywhere I went after that, and he even let me clean his wounds from the fence. I named him Links.”

She stares up at me with wonder. “You had a pet raccoon.”

I grin. “I suppose I did. He was my friend and lived a long life.”

Her bottom lip trembles, but she quickly drops her gaze, likely wanting to refocus her attention before she cries again. “And the ring? Where did it come from?”

“My mother gifted it to my father on their first wedding anniversary. After he passed, she gave it to me. It was too big for me at first, but once I grew into it, I put it on and haven’t taken it off since.”

“That’s so sweet,” she whispers. “You’re good at holding on to things.”

“I am,” I agree. “Just as I will always hold on to you, mia rosa.”

She lifts her watery blue gaze to mine again. “Why do you call me that? Mia rosa?” she asks softly.

I grab her hand briefly, placing a kiss atop it before letting her continue whispering her fingers across my skin. There are no words to describe how heartwarming it is knowing she has gone through something horrific yet still seeks my touch.

“My mother told me a story about the time my father asked her out on their first date. He was in love with her and chased after her wherever she went. She said he’d asked her on dates a thousand times before, and every time she would ask him why. He would give these shallow reasons, like her beauty or her smile and so on. So, she said no. Then, one day, he came to her with a single rose in his hands, the thorns plucked from the stem. He handed it to her and asked her on a date. When she asked why, he admitted that he was dirt poor and stole that rose from his neighbor’s garden. The owner caught him and shot at him for trespassing. Clearly, he got away unscathed except for his bleeding hand. The thorns had pricked him, and he couldn’t fathom giving my mother a rose when it could hurt her. So, he sheared them from the stem and ran straight to her. He told her that despite his nearly dying, he’d do it again. That he’d put himself through hell just to see her smile. That he would take all her pain so she would suffer none.”

By the time I’m finished, I look down to find Genevieve staring up at me with tear-filled eyes.

“She said yes, right? She didn’t make him try again?”

I grin. “How could she say no?”

She smiles. “If you are anything like your father, then I imagine she couldn’t.”

I swipe away a curl from her face, reveling in the feel of her soft skin against mine.

“I call you my rose because for you, I would take all your pain so you would suffer none,” I tell her softly. “I would go through hell for you. Die for you. Do anything you asked. I love you, mia rosa. More than you will ever know.”

She smiles, albeit shakily, a single tear slipping down her cheek. “Can you sing, Ronaldo?”

I’m surprised by her question, but I know that despite what I would do for her, she is suffering. So, if singing eases that, I would do whatever she asked. After a few beats, I say, “A little.”

“Can you sing something for me? I promise I’ll return the favor one day.”

I could never deny her.

I settle deeper into the couch, the two of us getting comfortable. She lays her head on my chest, and I croon in her ear the words to “T’ho vista piangere” by Alfredo Clerici.

The sad song lulls her to sleep, but I may never find another moment of rest until John Parsons ceases to breathe.

And since I’m beholden to my promise to Genevieve, I suppose the only thing for me to do is spend every waking hour loving her the way she deserves.

June 8, 1944

I think I love Ronaldo.

Another terrible thing for me to write as a married woman. Yet I still do not feel any regret for my words.

Before Ronaldo arrived, I was in an unimaginable amount of pain after what John did to me last night. Truthfully, I was still trying to wrap my head around it. To somehow justify his actions in my head to make it hurt less. I’m his wife, and he didn’t do anything I haven’t allowed him to do before. Yet those reminders didn’t make me feel any less empty. Nor did it rid me of the utter negativity polluting my mind and soul. It made me want to crawl outside my skin. And for the first time in my life, I truly did not want to be alive, if only to stop feeling that way.

If I had slipped off into nothingness, I would have welcomed it.

Until Ronaldo walked in.

While these feelings did not magically disappear, I did find a little morsel of light in the darkness plaguing my mind.

When he cradled me to his chest and told me about the beautiful love story between his parents, it settled my aching heart a little. And then, when he looked down upon me, even more beautiful words spilling from his lips, it started to sing.

I couldn’t help but ask him to sing, too. I wanted to know if his voice would harmonize with the melody in my heart.

It did.