When no one hears your screams.
Tom called to say he would be delayed. Something urgent had come up. I didn't mind waiting. Nothing extraordinary was likely to happen, and Santana's threats had begun to feel empty.
I was wrong.
I missed Gabrielle and kept wondering how she was coping alone. As I debated whether to go to her, I heard raised voices outside. Looking out of the window, I saw a small, agitated crowd. Gabrielle's father stood among them.
I stepped outside to find out what was happening. The moment they noticed me, the group turned hostile. Insults flew in every direction. I was still trying to understand what they were accusing me of when the true instigator appeared.
Santana stepped forward from behind the crowd, her smile vicious. Her lips were a brighter, wetter red than usual — the colour of fresh blood on an animal's jaws.
"What have you done with Gabrielle's body?" she screamed over the uproar. "I know you're hiding her somewhere!"
I stared at her in disbelief. "I don't know what you're talking about."
My denial came too late, too hesitant, too unconvincing.
The crowd surged forward, pushing me back into the house. While some men pinned me in a corner, others ransacked every room under Santana's direction. They found nothing. For a moment, doubt flickered across their faces.
But Santana hadn't finished.
"He's lying!" she cried. "I wouldn't drag you all here without proof. You don't know what I'm talking about, caretaker? Then what is this?"
She produced a piece of white fabric from behind her back and slowly unfolded it. Gabrielle's burial dress — dirty and unmistakable.
My heart plummeted.
"Remember this, darling?" she said in a perfectly distressed voice, turning to her husband. "This is the dress Gabrielle was buried in!"
"You son of a bitch!" her father roared. He broke free before anyone could stop him. His fist connected with my jaw with a sickening crack. It took four men to drag him away.
Santana kept fanning the flames. "We must go to the police. First, we dig up the coffin. If she isn't there, we'll have our proof."
The mob followed her eagerly, ignoring my protests. They dragged me roughly to Gabrielle's grave. I bitterly regretted not speaking to Tom earlier. Events were spiralling out of control.
Santana drew everyone's attention to the broken tombstone, claiming I had damaged it while stealing the body. Three men began shovelling earth from the grave. I struggled desperately, trying to make her father listen, but rage had blinded him.
They reached the coffin and lifted the lid.
It was empty.
All eyes turned to me. Only one person remained unsurprised.
Santana rummaged through the folds of velvet, searching for the necklace that mattered to her far more than any human life.
"Listen to me!" I shouted. "Your wife tried to kill your daughter but failed! Gabrielle was buried alive. She woke up when the robbers opened the coffin. I saved her. She's alive!"
"Don't you dare speak my daughter's name, you pervert!" her father bellowed. "Where is her body?"
He lunged at me again, but the others held him back and eventually led him away, sobbing convincingly.
Santana's voice rose once more. "I told you what he did at her grave the other night. He's sick. Disgusting. You know what, boys? Throw him in the coffin while we wait for the police. That should teach him a lesson."
They didn't hesitate. I kicked and screamed, but Santana's hold over them was absolute. They forced me into the narrow box and slammed the lid shut. I heard the scrape of shovels as earth rained down on the wood.
Screaming was pointless. I refused to give Santana the satisfaction. They hadn't buried me completely, because after a while the shovels fell silent and the crowd departed.
Then I heard her voice — muffled yet terrifyingly clear, as though she were lying beside me, whispering in my ear.
"I know Gabrielle is alive, sexton. And I know where you're hiding her. How was she? A hot little thing, wasn't she?"
A desperate scream tore from my throat, filling the suffocating darkness. Someone would find me eventually. But until then, anything could happen to Gabrielle. The thought drove me close to madness.
I pounded the lid until my fists bled, but it wouldn't yield. I felt like a trapped animal. Strangely, Santana had robbed me even of the silence of the grave. Every sound from above reached me magnified: birdsong, footsteps on the path, the wind howling through the cemetery.
An hour later, Tom came. I heard him cursing and praying as he dug me out. Relief flooded his face when he opened the lid and found me alive.
He helped me out, furious that I hadn't come to him sooner. After I told him everything about Gabrielle, he drove me straight to my apartment. I refused to go to the hospital first — the physical pain was nothing compared to the terror in my mind.
I took the stairs three at a time, but I already knew what I would find.
The lock had been forced. Inside were clear signs of a struggle. My sweet, fragile girl had tried to fight them off, but she had been too small, too weak. Somehow, though, I knew she was still alive. I could still feel the tailflower blooming inside my chest.
Tom stood behind me, updating me on the search for Santana. He had left the door open. The damp, heavy air from the stairwell brushed the back of my neck — a sensation horribly familiar.
In that moment, I knew exactly where they had taken my Gabrielle.