Where I had once seen tender attentiveness, the simple knowledge of a caregiver who paid attention, I now wondered, poisoned by Chloe’s whisper, if it was something more calculated, a way of binding my children to her.

Valeria waited by the front window every afternoon for Marisol to finish her chores so that the two of them could read together, a ritual they had built over the two years since my wife died.

Where I had once seen a sweet ritual, I now wondered if my daughter was being drawn away from me.

Both girls seemed to relax the instant Marisol entered a room, their small shoulders dropping, their voices lifting.

Where I had once read that as the comfort of a trusted presence, I now let myself wonder if it meant something darker.