My name is Andrea Santos. And I—very unfortunately—am a child.
That might sound normal, but trust me. It’s not.
You see, my mother is Elena Smythe. Movie star. Nightmare. Divorce machine. She and my dad, Parker Santos, split two years ago thanks to her acting career. And now, it was kicking me in the shin.
The clock was ticking, I snuck down the stairs to grab my headphones before mom noticed me. I snatched them and backed up into the stairs to climb up. I heard my mother’s heels clacking against the marble as she paced back and forth.
“Jordan, if the body isn’t gone by Friday—”
“Calm down, Madame.” He replied, “the body will be taken care of as soon as possible.” Did I hear that right?
My mother was fighting with her Agent, Uncle Jordan, over something. And it didn’t sound like a movie script. My phone fell out of my pocket and hit the ground with a clash. The noise in the living room dropped to nothing. “Andrea?” My mother called out walking in front of me. I sprinted up the stairs. “Andrea, young lady, don’t you dare come out of your room. Give me a minute, Jordan.” There she went, back to that stupid ‘good mother’ voice that didn’t fit her in the slightest.
I walked into my bedroom just before it was locked. I heard her voice over the intercom. “Andrea, remember you’re grounded. I’m turning the internet off for your room.” It’s fine, I needed time to think about what I just heard anyway.
It had to be about a movie. If my mom was a killer, I was a boy.
I laid on my bed, staring up at the ceiling fan like it could spin the confusion out of my head. Maybe I’d misheard. Maybe it was a scene from a script. Maybe my mom was just… doing one of those weird, method-acting rehearsals.
Yeah. That had to be it.
Except she never rehearsed lines out loud at home. She said it ruined the ‘magic.’ She said the house wasn’t built for magic anymore.
Great. Maybe she killed the magic too.
I pulled the blanket over my face and groaned into the mattress. No internet, no books, and definitely no TV. Just me and my thoughts, which were now filled with the possibility that my mother—a woman who once called grilled cheese “a poor person’s fondue”—was maybe, possibly, casually committing murder.
The next morning, she acted like nothing happened.
“Andrea,” she said, setting a smoothie on my desk like it was a peace offering. “I added chia seeds. For clarity of mind.” She patted the top of my head.
Clarity of mind. Yeah, I’d need that—along with witness protection.
I forced a smile. “Thanks, Mom.”
She nodded, graceful as ever, and walked out with that movie-star glide. The kind that looks effortless but probably costs a thousand dollars in Pilates.
I waited for the door to click shut before dumping the smoothie into the fake succulent pot on my bookshelf. No way was I drinking anything from her again.
School was a blur. Something about osmosis and a fire drill. But the real drama started when I got home.
The door to Mom’s office was open. It’s never open. It was never supposed to be open.
She was still at her afternoon shoot, so I crept inside. Her desk was covered in scattered scripts, headshots, and emails printed out like it was still 2008.
I scanned the room. Nothing bloody. No smoking gun. No giant neon sign that said “CRIME SCENE.” Just a normal Hollywood mess.
Until I found the manila folder.
Tucked beneath a pile of charity event invitations was a thick folder labeled: CHARLES – FINAL.
Final what?
I opened it.
Photos. Dozens of them. Of a man—maybe late thirties—taken at weird angles. Grainy. Secret.
There was one of him in a restaurant. Another at a gas station. And one, horribly clear, where he looked… dead. His eyes were open, but not seeing. The background was dark, and his shirt was stained with something I prayed was just red wine.
There was a sticky note on the back.
“Make sure Jordan gets the burner phone back. Too many loose ends.”
My throat closed up. My hands went cold. I shouldn’t have seen this.
That night, I didn’t sleep. I couldn’t. I replayed everything over and over, trying to make it make sense. And then, like the genius idiot I am, I decided to confront her.
At breakfast.
“So,” I said, buttering my toast like I wasn’t about to explode. “Who’s Charles?”
She didn’t even blink. “Old friend. Why?”
“Oh. No reason.” I took a bite, staring her down. “Is he dead?”
A pause. A flicker in her eyes. But only for a second. “Don’t be morbid, Andrea.” Too late.
I waited for her to leave. Then I called Dad.
Dad was calm, like always. But when I told him what I found, I heard it in his voice—that break, that hitch in his breath.
“You need to stay safe, okay?” he said. “I’m coming to get you.”
“You live in San Diego.”
“I’ll drive.” Then he hung up. I nearly threw the phone out of the window.
I couldn’t stay here. Not another night. Definitely not until Dad arrived.
That’s when I heard her talking again.
“—No, we’ll have to accelerate it. She’s starting to get nosy.”
She wasn’t on the phone. She was talking to Jordan and they were in the hallway.
I locked my door and backed up, heart slamming against my ribs. I had to get out.
Window.
Dumb? Yes. Necessary? Also yes.
I climbed out with my backpack and my laptop. Scraped my knee on the rose trellis. Landed hard on the mulch.
But I didn't care.
I ran past the gates and down the street. Across the intersection like my life depended on it—because it kind of did. Eventually, I found a gas station and asked to use the phone. Called Dad again. “Where are you?” I cried.
“Ten minutes away.”
That was the longest ten minutes of my life. But he came.
And when he did, he held me so tight I could barely breathe.
We called the police. Gave them everything. The folder. The sticky note. The pictures. Turns out Charles was a producer. He’d threatened to expose my mom for fraud. Fake charities. Laundering money through her movies. She panicked.
So she shut him up. Permanently.
Jordan took the fall. Or most of it. Mom still smiled at the press. Still walked red carpets. But she was never the same.
I live with Dad now. And I write everything down. Just in case.
Because here’s the thing:
People think kids don’t notice stuff. That we’re just background noise. But we notice everything. And sometimes, we overhear things we’re not supposed to. What matters next is what we do with it.
React
