Idolized

The door clicked shut and the Kingsleys were gone. Gabbie flicked the TV on, tossed popcorn in the microwave, the usual easy-money Friday night. Then the baby monitor gave a low groan and died. She dug through drawers, checked every outlet, nothing. Only one place left. She pushed open the office door like it might bite. Inside, spotlit on a low shelf, sat a twisted altar—her missing gray hoodie folded neat, a clear vial holding one of her long strands, glossy photos tacked edge-to-edge, even the silver ring she’d dropped weeks ago. Heat crawled up her neck. She stumbled backward, slammed the door hard enough to rattle the frame. Two hours later headlights swept the driveway. Gabbie met them at the door, rehearsing calm. She asked Mrs. Kingsley for “girl stuff,” eyes never leaving Mr. Kingsley’s polite smile. Once alone she dragged the redhead back down the hall and stabbed a finger toward the shelf. Mrs. Kingsley stared, silent, until Gabbie turned—and froze. Both of them filled the doorway now, shoulder to shoulder, neither smiling nor frowning, just watching. Mrs. Kingsley stepped close, voice low, insisting it wasn’t sick. In the living room they laid it bare: they wanted her—together, often, on their terms. Money, clothes, trips, the works. All she had to do was say yes. Gabbie swallowed, heart thudding against her ribs, then gave the smallest nod. The Kingsleys moved at once, hands sliding under her shirt, teeth grazing her throat, already stripping her bare on the couch while the baby monitor battery charger sat forgotten on the counter.