“There’s something in your drink—the black girl whispered to the billionaire. The man’s hair stood on end when he found out what was there

Don’t drink that, she whispered, it’s not just juice. Cyrus Bennett froze, the glass of chilled orange juice inches from his lips. He glanced sideways and saw Maya Williams nine years old, slight, quiet, with eyes that had learned to scan the world long before she should have needed to.

Her voice had barely broken the silence of the breakfast room, but the warning in her tone cut through the morning calm like a siren. He set the glass down slowly. What do you mean? He asked, trying to keep his voice light, even playful.

Did I grab your juice by mistake? Maya didn’t smile, she just stood there, hands tucked behind her back, toes turned slightly inward, wearing the pink hoodie she almost never took off. Her eyes stayed on the glass. It smells like, that stuff they used on me once, back at the center, when they didn’t want us to remember.

Cyrus felt a chill crawl up his spine despite the warmth in the room. The floor-to-ceiling windows bathed the breakfast nook in golden California light. Outside, the lawn crew trimmed the hedges.

Inside, the smell of cinnamon toast and freshly squeezed juice mingled in the air, and yet everything suddenly felt off. He looked toward the kitchen where Vanessa, his fiancée, was humming softly, her heels clicking against the marble as she arranged a tray of fruit. Vanessa made it, he said carefully.

Maya nodded. I know. Cyrus looked at the juice again.

It had beads of condensation rolling slowly down the glass. It looked like every other glass of juice she’d poured him over the last six months, but now thanks to one small voice it looked like a threat. He gave a slight laugh, more out of habit than humor.

You’ve got quite the imagination, he said, brushing her hair back behind her ear. She didn’t flinch, but she didn’t smile either. I’m just saying, she said softly.

Maybe don’t drink it. Not yet. Um, he watched her walk out of the room, her little sneakers squeaking on the tile.

The door clicked shut behind her, and Cyrus was left with the silence and the juice. He didn’t drink it. Instead, he poured it down the sink.

That night, he found himself standing at his home office window, looking out at the dark. Vanessa had long since gone to bed. The house was quiet, but his mind was louder than ever.

Her smile earlier that evening had been just like every other time. Warm, affectionate, effortless. Too effortless? Maya’s words wouldn’t leave him…