T H I R D
Nova had been in her room all day.
Not because she was resting.
Resting felt like something other people did when their lives made sense.
This wasn't rest. It was containment.
She sat cross-legged on her bed with a notebook open in front of her, pages filled with messy connections, names, routes, fragments of information that didn't quite line up yet—but were getting closer. Always closer.
Trevor's name sat in the center of one page, circled so many times the paper had started to tear at the edges.
Diablo was curled near her feet, asleep but alert in the way trained animals always were. Micte was stretched across the end of the bed, occasionally lifting its head whenever Nova shifted too sharply.
The mansion outside her room was too quiet.
She didn't trust quiet anymore.
Quiet meant people were thinking.
Quiet meant something was coming.
Downstairs, voices drifted faintly through the floorboards—muffled at first, then clearer, like someone had raised their voice without realizing it.
Nova paused her writing.
A pencil hovered above the page.
Malcolm.
"...I shouldn't have said anything."
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
Then another voice—Christian.
"What are you talking about?"
The tone was sharp enough that it cut through everything else.
Nova sat up slowly.
She didn't move toward the door yet. She just listened.
Silence followed downstairs. The kind that meant someone was regretting what they already couldn't take back.
Ronaldo's voice came next, more controlled, but firm.
"No. You did say something. The night of the break-in."
Nova's fingers tightened around the pencil.
"When you were checking Nova's wounds," Ronaldo continued, "you said scars. What scars are you talking about, Malcolm?"
A pause.
Then Diego, lower and tense.
"What scars?"
Another voice overlapped—Angelo this time.
"Yeah, what are you talking about?"
The atmosphere shifted instantly. Nova could feel it even through the floor. Like the air had changed density.
Malcolm's voice came again, quieter now.
"You misheard me."
A beat.
Christian didn't raise his voice at first.
That made it worse.
"What are you not telling us?"
Nova stood.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Downstairs, Malcolm exhaled.
YOU ARE READING
Bonita
General FictionShe was only 8 years old. 8 years old and she saw her mother get killed by a drive by. From that day poor Nova has been traumatized and has been to foster home to foster home. At the age of 12, Nova has anger and trust issues, never letting anyo...
