I stand in the spot where I woke up, trying to see what I saw that day. The woman in black. Abigail. Rain-colored eyes wild with terror, mascara running down her cheeks.He's gone insane—you should hide too.
She disappeared through a wall that shouldn't have had a door.
And I never told.
I walk toward the back corner, toward the wall that looked solid but wasn't. In daylight, I can see it: a seam in the stone that's almost invisible unless you know where to look. I press my hand against the cool surface, push...
And the wall gives way, swinging inward to reveal a narrow passage beyond.
No light inside. Just darkness.
I glance back at my guards. The younger one takes a step forward.
"Just looking," I call out. "I'm not going far."
I slip into the darkness before he can change his mind.
The passage is cold, narrow, the walls rough stone. I use my phone as a flashlight, the pale beam cutting through the dark.
Twenty feet in, my light catches something.
A stone in the wall, slightly askew. Like someone moved it recently and didn't quite put it back the same way.
My heart beats faster.
I reach out, wiggle the stone. It shifts. Comes loose.
Behind it is a small hollow. And inside that hollow, tucked away like a secret someone was desperate to keep...
A journal.
Small, leather-bound. The cover is soft under my fingers, worn smooth by handling.
I open the front cover.
This journal belongs to Abigail Briones.
My hands begin to shake.
I TAKE THE JOURNALback to my room because I need light and privacy to understand what I've found.
I curl up on the bed and open to the first page.
The early entries are almost entirely about her father. What he expects. What he wants. How to please him. She writes about him the way someone writes about an impossible exam—always studying, never passing.
But as I turn the pages, someone else appears. She never names him. Just "he" and "him." A man who watches her. Who knows things he shouldn't. Who corners her in hallways and smiles like he's already won.
The final entry is barely legible, the handwriting wild and slanting.
I know what he is now. I know what Father did. I'm not a bride—I'm a transaction. But I'm done hiding. I'm going to confront him tonight, and I'm going to—
The entry ends.
Mid-sentence. Mid-word.
Like someone stopped her.
I stare at the blank space where her words should continue, and the blood in my veins has gone to ice. My hands are shaking so badly the journal trembles in my grip.
