"Get in the car now!" Dad shouts at my younger brother, Matthew, who is crying and squeezing his teddy tightly. His crying picks up, so I reach over and scoop him into my arms, pull him into the truck, buckle him into the middle seat, and climb in behind him. Dad throws our things into the back of the truck, and we rip out of the driveway, speeding towards the evacuation route. The storm has been plastered all over the media for weeks, yet Dad decided just now that we would leave. It is his fault we are rushing out of here like this. I've been begging him to go; I knew the hurricane heading our way would turn toward us. Anyone watching the recent trends of these storms could have predicted it, so why couldn't the weathermen on TV? But I knew, I warned Dad, and now Matthew and I are suffering the consequences of Dad's ignorance. We make it to the highway, which is packed with others who heeded no warnings. "We could have avoided this if you had just listened to me," I huff in a whisper. Dad still hears me. This is no time for your petty little comments, Cassandra! " he shouts at me, making Matthew cry even harder. I roll my eyes in the back seat where he can't see me, "Where are we even going?" "To your mother's house." He retorts with something that sounds a lot like a grunt. Matthew and I sigh in unison. Dad tells us we have nowhere else to go, so obviously, this is the only place to turn with a hurricane barreling towards our home. "We might be there for a while, so just make do," he reassures us. "It is not ideal." Mom has not been in our lives for years. She might remember one of our birthdays or a Christmas card once every other year, but that is the extent of her existence. She left when Matthew was only two years old, and I was ten. It was harder for me when Mom left; I now have vague memories of her. I think I blocked them all out to save me from the trauma, but I had her in my life for ten whole years. Imagine how difficult it is for a young girl to have her mom up and leave without so much as a goodbye, never to be seen again. Kinda. With our mom's early departure, I grew into the role of Matthew's caretaker. Dad did his best, but there is only so much a single parent can do to raise two kids while working full-time. We always had food on our plates and clothes on our backs. I am grateful for Dad, even if he can sometimes be stuck in his ways. A few hours later, we pulled up to Mom's massive home. When she left us, it was to further her career, as we were "holding her back. "However, I don't remember asking to be here in the first place. Mom stands at the top of her grand staircase, lined with perfectly trimmed bushes; some contain roses, while others are bare and vibrantly green. She looks perfectly poised, waiting at the top of the stairs. Her butler hobbles towards Dad's 1992 Ford F-150, his lips pursed as he reaches for the door handle to the passenger side door and begrudgingly opens it for us. As Matthew and I climb out of the car, we gape at the house before us. While we have been struggling to get by in our small, two-bedroom villa, Mom has been living in luxury and starting a new family—a better family. "My darlings," she rolls off her tongue with posh arrogance, "I am so happy to have you here; it is about time." She says this as if it has been our doing for her lack of motherhood. She runs to us, squeezing our shoulders while holding us at arm's length. I cringe backward, and she notices. She drops her hands and turns to Matthew, tilting his chin up so he is looking at her. "My, you have grown so big," she coos. Matthew starts to whimper, and I pick him up into my arms. He is six years old and still wants me to carry him everywhere. We follow the butler into the house, and he leads us to our room. I set down the luggage and looked around. When I first enter the room, there is a young girl's bed to the right and a crib in the back corner. A cot has been placed on the opposite side of the room, next to a bookshelf filled with children's books. The more I look around, the more I realize what this room is or was. Pictures of Mom, Matthew, I, and a few with Dad are placed throughout. I look in the closet and see clothes I remember wearing as a girl. Matthew has curled up on the bed and continues to cry. I sit beside him and wrap my arms around his shoulders. "It's okay, Matty. We will be out of here soon." As I stand and walk towards the window, I see Mom and Dad still outside, talking to each other and laughing. Days passed, and the hurricane barreled toward our villa, but at the last minute, it turned south and missed our home. Neighbors have been giving us updates on the state of our area, and while there is some damage from intense winds, our house is intact. We can finally head back home. It has been strange being in Mom's home. She acts like she never abandoned us, makes us breakfast every morning, and tells us to pick up our clothes off the floor. We sit on the back patio each afternoon and drink tea; I almost don't mind it. But I am not letting this woman walk back into our lives after how she treated her kids and her husband. One day, while sunbathing on the back patio, I mistakenly asked about her new husband and son, our half-brother. She became tense and told me they were visiting her husband, Kevin's family, overseas for the summer. Since then, she has been avoidant and keeps busy whenever I enter the room. Dad seems not to care that Mom even has a new husband, laughing and flirting with her as if nothing has changed, and Matthew is too young to know the difference. To him, his mother is acting like a mom again, and I won't let her break his little heart twice. I am ready to leave this place; it feels wrong. I find Dad out back mowing the lawn. "What are you doing?" I shout over the mower's whirring. Dad looks at me and smiles, his eyes glazing over as if he had no clue what I was talking about. He has a picture-perfect look of happiness on his face. How he can stand to be around Mom is beyond me, but how he can look so happy is beyond what I knew about my father. Conflict stirs in my belly. I want to leave this place, but Dad and Matthew seem so relaxed. I don't want to ruin a moment of joy we will never get again. I turn back around and catch Mom staring at me from the window. She probably is just watching Dad mow the lawn, dreaming of what she missed out on and pretending she has it now. I hate her even more. I wait a few more days before I say anything to Dad, but as the days go on, the sense that something just isn't right grows on me. Dad has become almost robotic, smiling at all times of the day and not saying much. Even Matthew has started to notice that something is off. We sit on the back patio in the same spot at the same time every day. Mom brings the tea out and hands Dad a glass and one for Matthew and me. I feel like I am in that movie where the guy wakes up, and it's the same day over and over again. I finally turn to Dad, "When are we leaving?" I wait for him to turn towards me and say something, but he stares into the distance, "Dad! We need to go back home," I plead with him. "Oh, Cassandra, why would we leave such a lovely place so soon? Let's stay here a little longer and enjoy having your mother around for once." He lets out a deep laugh like he is enjoying the conversation. Something is not right. Later that night, after pleading with Dad some more but seemingly getting nowhere, I pretend I am sleeping when Mom comes in to say goodnight. She goes to Matthew's bed and kisses him on the forehead, then to mine to do the same. It takes all of my willpower not to reach up and wipe the kiss off my face. When Mom leaves the room, I get up quietly so as not to startle Matthew. After silently tiptoeing over each floorboard to get to the door, I reach for the handle and try to turn it. The doorknob doesn't budge. I'm locked in here. Mom locked us in here. I go to the windows next, being a little less quiet with panic now setting in. I push on the windows, but they are jammed shut. There is nowhere out of this room, and my Mother locked us in. The sun rose through the window the following day, and I lay in bed, sleepy from staying awake all night tossing and turning. After hearing voices stir throughout the house, I go to the door and try again on the knob; it turns. Did I imagine the door being locked, or did someone unlock it, thinking it would be before I realized it? I race down the stairs, searching for Mom. I run into her in the kitchen, nearly knocking the breakfast she prepared for us out of her hands. Why she prepares us food and drinks when she has a butler is still beyond me. "Did you lock the door to our room last night?" I accuse her. She looks baffled by this statement. "Of course not, darling. " She purses her lips, "Why would I ever need to lock you in?" Another couple of nights pass, and the same thing happens. Each morning, I wake up and ask Mom about it. No matter what I say, she denies it, and no matter how much I plead with Dad, he has that same glossy look on his face as if he has no clue what is happening. Tonight, after searching through the random stuff in the room, I found a tool with a sharp tip. When everyone sleeps, I quietly approach the door and pick up the lock. It works. As I make my way downstairs, I hear a faint mumbling of voices. They sound as if they are coming from the back of the house—no, below the house. I follow the sound to where it is loudest and find a door slightly ajar in the back of the kitchen. I open the door and see a stairwell that wraps around the wall, descending into a basement I did not know existed. As I slowly walk down the steps, the voices grow louder, and I can hear unpleasant noises coming from further below. I continue to go closer and closer to the bottom of the stairs. As I go to the last few steps, I look up, and my eyes go wide, breath catching at what I see before me. "Dad?”