Chapter 2
The Lie in His Eyes
He looked normal.
That was the scary part.
Dad stood in the doorway in his usual faded T-shirt, sleepy eyes, and a coffee stain that probably came from yesterday's mug. His messy curls stuck out like always, and his voice was calm, almost too calm.
"Are you sure you're okay?" he asked again, brows furrowing.
Amelia nodded quickly. "Yeah. Just... bad dream. Maybe the generator fumes got to me."
He gave a small chuckle, relieved. "You should open a window. Go lie down. I'll make toast."
Toast.
Her mom just appeared in a bathtub portal, whispered her name like a ghost with Wi-Fi—and this man was offering toast.
She didn't answer. She just brushed past him and walked to the kitchen, trying not to explode from the storm in her chest.
⸻
The kitchen was quiet, except for the low hum of the fridge and the clink of a spoon against ceramic. Her dad hummed as he stirred tea, like everything was totally fine and his dead wife hadn't just been making out with him in the spirit realm.
Amelia stared at him. Hard.
"What?" he asked, grinning.
She tilted her head. "What do you remember about Mom?"
He froze.
It was only for a second, but she saw it—his jaw tensed. That small twitch in his brow. The kind that said: Careful, kid.
"She was... amazing," he said slowly. "Beautiful. Brave. Kind. Why do you ask?"
"I don't know. I had a dream about her. She looked... real."
Another pause. Another lie in his eyes. She knew it now. He was hiding something.
"Well," he said, placing the toast in front of her like it solved everything, "dreams are funny like that."
She didn't touch the toast. "Did you love her?"
His hand stilled.
"What kind of question is that?" he asked softly, without looking up.
"The kind that needs an honest answer," Amelia whispered.
A long silence stretched between them.
Finally, he looked up, eyes darker than before. "I still do."
And just like that, she knew—
He'd seen her, too.
He didn't blink. Didn't breathe.
And Amelia didn't either.
"You saw her," she said softly. "Didn't you?"
Her dad flinched.
"Don't be ridiculous," he said, way too fast.
But his hands betrayed him—clenching the edge of the table, knuckles pale. His cup shook slightly when he lifted it to his lips.
"I'm not being ridiculous," she snapped. "I saw her. In the water. Tonight."
The words hung in the air like smoke. Dangerous. Unwelcome.
Her dad looked away, jaw tight. "You're just... shaken. Sometimes grief does that."
"Dad," she said, standing now, her voice rising, "don't gaslight me. I know what I saw. She said my name. My name." Her chest heaved. "How long were you going to pretend I imagined it all?"
He stared at the table, silent.
A kettle whistled from the stove. He didn't move to stop it.
Amelia stepped closer. "Is she alive?"
Nothing.
Her fists clenched. "Is she dead?"
He finally met her eyes—and she hated the sadness she saw there. But also the guilt.
"I don't know what you saw, Amelia," he said quietly. "But Elvira's gone. That's the truth I know."
He walked away.
Just like that. Like they were talking about groceries.
⸻
Amelia stood in the middle of the kitchen long after he left, toast cold and untouched, her heart pounding.
He was lying.
Her dad was lying to her face.
And now? She had claws. Glowing eyes. A reflection that talked back. And not a single clue why.
She wasn't going to get answers from him. Not yet.
But she knew one thing for sure.
If no one else would tell her the truth—
She'd find it herself.