I go back to picking up the glass, dumping it in some paper towels, wrapping it up, and putting it in the bin.
Marge unravels the towel, her arm already healed, and I let out a breath of relief when I hear Marabella cry out, and I cuss under my breath before heading for the door when Marge rushes past me.
“I will check on them,” she says, blocking the door before slipping out.
“No, sit down. I will go; just wash the blood off,” I tell her, trying to slip past her, but she grabs my arm gently.
“No, it's fine, Luna. I don’t mind; how about you make the coffee?” She says, her eyes darting to the stairs nervously.
“Marge, are you afraid of me? I didn’t mean it,” I ask her before forcing myself in her head. Her memories become mine. I filter through them, seeing the countless times Mateo o
