Gemma… did you just—?" Gabriel's voice faltered, his hand instinctively touching his mouth in disbelief.
"Gemma, repeat what you said," Lucy demanded, one brow arched high, her voice sharp.
But Gemma said nothing. She just stood there — unreadable. Still. Like a living statue.
Gabriel searched her face for any flicker of emotion. Nothing. Not anger, not fear — just emptiness. The silence was maddening.
"Goddammit!" Lucy screamed, jumping to her feet. "Say something, Gemma! Say something for once! Get angry — throw a tantrum — do something, for Chrissake!"
She grabbed Gemma by the shoulders, shaking her in frustration. "You keep making things harder for all of us!"
Still, no reaction.
Then Gemma's eyes slowly turned to Gabriel. He stared back, hoping — maybe she would finally speak, finally feel.
But instead, she turned and walked away.
"Get back here this instant, young lady!" Lucy shouted.
The only response was the echo of the front door slamming shut.
"Ugh! She's driving me insane!" Lucy dropped back onto the couch, exasperated. "She's going to kill me with that silence."
"You should stop pestering her, Lucy," a calm voice cut through the tension. "Or people might actually start to believe she's mute."
Lucy and Gabriel both turned to the door — stunned.
"Dad?" Gabriel blinked. "When did you get back?"
"What, you thought I was dead?" the man said as he stepped into the room.
Lucy's eyes narrowed. "Ha! George, you're alive after all."
George strolled in casually, his presence commanding the space. "Yes, Lucy. I was never dead. Stop being dramatic and sit down."
He lowered himself into the couch like he hadn't vanished for two years.
Gabriel quietly turned away and walked upstairs.
George was in his late sixties, with silver-white hair, deep black eyes that held stories, and a sharply pointed nose. His face was V-shaped, angular and weathered. His lashes were so faint, you had to be close to even notice them. He was the patriarch — the head of the family — but had disappeared without a trace for two whole years.
"Where have you been, George?" Lucy asked, arms folded, her voice tight with tension.
He stared at her, seeming to weigh whether she deserved an answer. Then, flatly, he said, "Looking for answers."
"And what did you find?"
Ignoring her question, he shifted the topic. "Let's talk about the fact that you've changed our daughter's school five times in the past year. And now this one? What the hell is wrong with you, Lucy?"
"I… I want her to be triggered, I guess," she muttered, almost like it was nothing.
George stood up, his voice rising. "Oh my God. Something is seriously wrong with you, woman!"
He glared at her. "What is your problem, huh? How long do you think you can keep doing this to her? To all of us?"
Lucy snapped. "And how long do you think you can protect her, George? How long?!"
His tone dropped low, deadly serious. "As long as I'm alive."
He turned to leave the room but paused near the doorway. His voice was grave.
"They all know she's going there. Fix it. Tonight."
Then he disappeared up the stairs.
Lucy let out a bitter laugh. "Who is he to control me?" she scoffed, brushing imaginary dust off her shoulder.
But something in her shifted.
Her expression slowly changed.
A wicked grin spread across her lips — and without another word, she grabbed her coat and left the house.