The first thing is the smell.
Ashes.
Not from a fireplace. From paper. From pictures. From anything with my name on it.
I'm twenty-two. I've been in this room for two years.
Four walls. One bed. One window that doesn't open. One door that locks from the outside.
Click. Click. Every night at 9pm. Like a heartbeat. Like a prison.
My name is Tinsel Monroe.
But my Aunt Christine calls me _Girl_.
She took me from my parents two years ago.
I was twenty. Home for Christmas. Mama was cooking. Papa was fixing the generator. Then Aunt Christine came through the door without knocking.
She didn't bring gifts. She brought two men and a file with my picture on it.
She showed it to my mama. Mama dropped the spoon.
Christine said, "They're coming for her. Tonight. Do you want her breathing or buried? Pick."
I didn't understand. I yelled. I said she was crazy.
Papa stood up. "Over my dead body."
Christine looked at him and said, "That can be arranged."
Then she took me.
I kicked. I screamed. The men didn't care.
That night, I heard on the news: Fire in 'Aby District.' Two dead. Young couple. No survivors._
My parents.
The news said it was a gas leak.
I knew better.
Christine drove me six hours to Panther Street. Locked me in this yellow room.
She tells me, my parents sold me to her for their debts.
"They didn't want you, Girl. I'm all you've got. You should thank me."
I don't thank her.
Because every week, she burns something.
My school ID.
My birth certificate.
The letters my mama used to write me at university.
Last night I heard her on the phone:
"I know she hates me. Let her. As long as she's alive, I'll be the devil in her story. They're still looking. They put up new flyers. If they find out I lied about the fire, if they find out she's here, they'll finish the job."
Who's they?
I don't know.
But I found the ash this morning.
Half a flyer. My face. Big letters:
MISSING. PRESUMED DEAD.
And across it, in Sola's red pen: GOOD. STAY DEAD.
She wants the world to think I'm ash.
She wants me to be ash.
So I'm plotting my escape.
I have a bobby pin from her hair drawer.
I have a jar of biscuits I steal from the kitchen.
I have two years of listening to her steps and memorizing when she leaves for "market."
She's the villain.
She stole me.
She lied about my parents.
She locked me up and calls it love.
She has to be the villain.
Except…
Except the locks are on the outside, but the kitchen has knives and she's never moved them.
Except the cameras she put in the hallway all point at the front door. Not at me.
Except when I had malaria last time, she stayed awake for four days straight, holding my hand and whispering, "Your mama would kill me if I let you go. Don't you dare, Tinsel. Don't you dare."
She said my name.
She hasn't said it since.
Except when I cry at night, she's outside my door. I hear her. Not coming in. Just… guarding. Like she thinks monsters check under beds.
She's a bad villain.
Or she's not the villain at all.
I don't know yet.
I just know today I smell ash.
And I just know I heard her tell someone, "They tracked the old phone. We have to move tonight. Or I have to let her run."
Let me run?
Since when does a kidnapper let you run?
I don't trust it.
Tonight, when she goes to "market," I'm picking the lock.
I'm done being Girl.
I'm going to find out if my parents are really dead.
I'm going to find out who they are.
And if my Aunty Christine is the monster…
…then why does she cry when she thinks I'm asleep?