I’d been so sure Hina was the spy due to that strange look on the other island. However, standing in this meticulously curated living room filled with scenes from a book none of them even liked. . .I was seeing a different pattern.
I’m so glad I came to see their living space. There’s a clear hierarchy here that I didn’t know existed, and that’s important.
I looked at Hiro. “Hina is the youngest, but then who is the oldest?”
“Yuki.”
“Interesting.” I put my view back on the painting.
Three bedrooms arranged by choice or more by age—Yuki first, Mami in the center, Hina protected at the end. Three childhood roles etched into adulthood. Three women living inside a performance space built to reflect Kenji back at himself.
And in the center of it all—Mami’s paintings.
Hmmm.
God, those paintings were impeccable and should have won her awards. So much devotion in every brushstroke and tenderness in every detail. This was a woman pouring herself into images of stories she called “juvenile.”
Some people didn’t commit betrayal because they hated someone. They did it because they were unseen.
And middle children were experts at being unseen.
Yuki was the oldest—trusted, responsible, the one who probably held everything together. Hina was the youngest—protected, indulged, and probably the emotional pulse everyone responded to.
But Mami?
The middle?
The one whose needs disappeared in the space between those two poles?
She blended in.
Soft.
Sweet.
Overlooked.
Still here, after years of devotion that rarely earned more than a gentle compliment.
If it is only one spy. . .it would be the one used to being invisible.
The one who learned to adapt so well she became part of the furniture.
The one with the quiet talent.
The one who lived behind her own paintings like a ghost.
My suspicion of Hina had been instinct.
But this—this was motive.
Mami made the most sense.
The overlooked always did.
Plus, I knew this pattern.
I'd watched my mother live it for years.
