I keep replaying the events of that evening in my mind. Every time I close my eyes, I see flashes—the knife glinting, blood on my hands, the cold fire of fear in Naomi’s eyes. How isanyonemeant to sleep after something like that?
I heard Naomi come in after Liam left. Her voice hushed and mingled with Sam’s in murmurs that occasionally escalate into what sounded like an argument. So much anger there, sharp enough to cut through my exhaustion, but not sharp enough to pull me out of bed. Whatever they’re arguing about, it’s not my fight right now.
Morning eventually crawls through the cracks in my blinds, golden light spilling across the floor in muted streaks. It’s almost beautiful. With a groan, I drag myself up, my body heavy.
I’ve been avoiding the mirror, but now I finally allow myself to look. The sight makes me flinch. As expected.
The cut slices from my eyebrow down toward the edge of my nose—a cruel, jagged line marring my skin. It looks worse today, swollen and angry, the bruising around it deepening into shades of dark purple and sickly yellow. My face is pale, almost ghostly, and my eyes are rimmed with deep shadows.
I reach up and touch the wound, as if by feeling it I can confirm it’s real. The girl in the mirror doesn’t flinch, though I wish she would. I wish she would move, break free, and become someone else entirely.
I splash water onto my face, the shock of it jolting me for a moment, but nothing else changes. The girl staring back at me is still a stranger. Someone I wouldn’t recognize on the street.
I need concealer. Naomi probably has some. I’ll ask her later.
***
Brushing through my tangled hair feels like a chore, and I move mechanically, refusing to glance at the mirror again. It’s easier that way—easier to pretend I’m not slowly coming undone.
Downstairs, the house is eerily quiet, like it’s holding its breath. I grab an apple from the counter, biting into it without really tasting it.
I hear Sam’s footsteps approaching, her presence pulling me out of my thoughts. I don’t turn around as she enters. “I didn’t sleep either,” she says softly, her voice carrying an edge of exhaustion that matches my own.
I manage a half-hearted smile. “You were gone a while.”
“I… had to calm down,” she admits after a pause.
I sigh quietly, almost inaudibly, and then finally turn to face her. “I figured,” I reply, my tone neutral. It’s always the same with her—running off when things get too real. Sam thinks distance can solve everything, that if she runs far enough, fast enough, the problems will somehow vanish. But that’s not a luxury I have. I’ve never had the option to flee.
Her gaze lingers on my face, on the cut. I brace myself for the pity, for the concern I don’t want, but she just stares.
“It looks bad, Addie,” she says, her voice quiet but steady.
Thanks for that reminder, Sam.Although I really don’t need it. How come she’s always doing things I don’t need? But when I actually need her to do something useful, she doesn’t. It’s infuriating. I like to think of myself as a fairly patient person, but there are times when I could just explode.
This is one of those times.
“Then stop looking,” I snap, this time inviting the harshness in. It’s not just about the scar, and she knows that. Sam’s eyes widen slightly, but she doesn’t apologize. Doesn’t even flinch. I wait for her to say something—anything—that shows she understands. But she doesn’t.
With a bitter sigh, I turn away from her and head for the stairs. I’m halfway up when something catches my eye: a sheet of paper, laid neatly on the table by the staircase.
A chill washes over me, freezing me mid-step. Slowly, I descend and move toward it, dread coiling in my stomach like a living thing. I already know what it is before I reach it.
The words glare up at me in bold, black ink:
Stop looking. This is your final warning.
This isn’t the first time I’ve received such a warning. It’s not the first time I’ve been told to back off, to stop digging for answers about the crash, about my father, about Wren.
And I’ve seen what they can do if we choose not to listen. They know about Sam and me looking into things, perhaps even getting too close. They know more than I’m comfortable with.
If they’re watching, if they’re capable of getting into our house, who knows what else they can do?
It’s a choice between satisfying my curiosity and keeping my family safe. A simple one. I need to drop this, to let it go. Maybe if we back off, if we stop probing, they’ll leave us alone. It’s not worth the danger anymore. It never was.
I clutch the paper in my hand, fold it carefully and tuck it into my pocket.
***
