He pointed to the notebook cover. It had a symbol engraved: an eye between two crescent moon shapes.
Joseph put on gloves carefully and started turning the pages slowly. Inside were lines written by hand in red ink, full of strange symbols, dates, and names. Some pages described herbal formulas and chemical substances. I shuddered, realizing perhaps there was the recipe for the substance she had given me to drink.
There was also a list of hosts already offered with an estimate of their assets. They were names I did not know, families unrelated to me, but in that moment I felt a tragic connection to them.
But it was the last page that left me paralyzed. Under a title written in capital letters in a macabre way—FINAL PURIFICATION RITUAL—there was a line written in clear and neat handwriting.
Offering Steven Miller. Time 0:00. Full moon night. Friday, December 1st. Place: the ravine.
My blood froze. I looked at the calendar hanging in Rose’s house. Today is Wednesday. We only have two days. Two days to save my son from a horrific sacrifice ritual.
“Where is the ravine?” I asked with a trembling voice, not recognizing myself.
“It is an old canyon on the outskirts of the city where there was an abandoned mine for years,” answered Joseph with a firm tone. “A perfect place to do shady things without anyone finding out.”
He looked at me with determination, but also with deep compassion. “Now we have it all: the time, the place, and irrefutable proof. Her acting gave us the key to all this.” He paused and then said every word like a hammer blow. “It is time to lower the curtain, ma’am.”
On Friday night, under the full moon, the air in the house was so thick it could almost be touched. Jennifer seemed more restless than usual. She kept looking at the wall clock, twisting the edge of her blouse with her fingers, and occasionally spying out the window as if expecting something. She no longer hummed while cooking. The house was unsettlingly silent.
At 9:00, sharp as always, she brought me a cup of chamomile tea. But this time, she did not leave it on the table and leave. She stayed there watching me.
“Drink the tea early and rest, Mom. Today you look a little tired.”
Her voice had something different, a disguised urgency. I received the teacup, my old hands completely steady. I looked her straight in the eyes, trying to sketch a last smile. A smile that would end this tragic play.
“Thank you, daughter.”
I brought the cup to my lips. I pretended to take a sip, letting the familiar aroma of chamomile—that smell of betrayal—invade my nostrils. Then, while she turned around, I repeated the gesture that had already become a habit. I emptied the rest into the fern pot.
This time, the smell of sedative in the air seemed stronger, but it did not make me sleepy. On the contrary, I felt more awake than ever.
I went up to my room, pretended to yawn, wished her good night, and turned off the light. But I did not sleep. I sat on the bed in the dark, ears well attentive to any sound, no matter how minimal. My heart beat hard, not from fear, but from expectation.
At 11:00 sharp, I heard a creak on the floor below. I narrowed my eyes and looked through the crack of the bedroom door. A silhouette moved—Jennifer, dressed in black from head to toe. She slid silently toward the front door. It opened and closed softly, almost without making noise.
The snake had left her lair.
As soon as I heard her car engine start and drive away, I jumped out of bed. I did not waste time changing clothes. I ran down in my flannel pajamas. I cracked the door and slipped into the freezing night air.
A dark sedan with no headlights on appeared from the corner and stopped right in front of me. The back door opened. Joseph was at the wheel. His face in the gloom seemed carved in stone.
“Get in, Mrs. Eleanor.”
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