They return to the boxes with renewed purpose, the laughter gone but something else in its place now, something sharper.Determination.
Isla opens another box and finds more photographs, more fragments of a life she was never allowed to witness.Keir laughing with his bandmates.Keir in a studio, headphones around his neck.Keir leaning over a mixing board, face focused, eyes alive.
Alive.
The word slices through her.
Then she finds something folded beneath the photos: a thin envelope, unsealed, with Keir’s handwriting on the front.
Not her name.
Not Alisa’s.
Just a single letter.
A.
Isla’s pulse stutters.
Callum’s gaze snaps to it.“That’s…”
“I know,” Isla whispers.
She turns it over with trembling fingers.
It isn’t open.
It isn’t read.
It’s just there, like a final breadcrumb, like a dare.
Isla looks up at Callum.“Again, we have the letter A.”
Callum’s expression is grim.“Someone who mattered enough to stop him.Honestly, I think it’s your mother.”
Isla’s stomach twists.Alisa.
She grips the envelope until the paper bends slightly.“We’re not leaving this room until we know what this is.”
Callum’s voice is low.“Then we better figure out how to get out first.”
Isla glances toward the door again.The lock sits there, silent, indifferent.
The castle isn’t giving them an easy escape.
Of course, it isn’t.
Isla draws in a slow breath and steadies herself.“Call for help,” she says.“But not my mother.Not my manager.Not anyone connected to… them.”
Callum nods once, as if he understands exactly what she means.
He reaches for the door again, testing the handle, then the lock, jaw clenched.
Isla watches him, the way his shoulders tense, the way his hands flex with frustration.
And without warning, she laughs softly.
Callum turns.“What?”
