A bracelet she lost at seventeen.
A hair tie.
A torn corner of her favourite sweatshirt.
The lipstick she used the night before the arrest.
And—
The Polaroid.
The one from the lake.
Her on my shoulders, laughing, water dripping down her legs, hands in my hair.
Me looking up at her like she hung the fucking moon.
My thumb brushes her image.
My pulse pounds.
“You shouldn’t have left that night,” I whisper to the picture. “You shouldn’t have run. You shouldn’t have let them talk you into betraying me.” A muscle jumps in my cheek. “But you’re going to tell me why, sweetheart. And you’re going to do it while you’re looking at me.”
The house around me thickens — the air dense, heavy, almost humid. My breath leaves a faint fog in the cold patch of light spilling from the single lamp.
I close the box.
Click the lock.
Stand.
Envelope in pocket.
Phone charged.
Her voicemail still echoing in the back of my skull like a heartbeat out of rhythm.
I grip the doorknob again — and this time I turn it.
The wind hits my face immediately — cold, sharp, soaked in the smell of wet pine and damp earth. The woods rustle in the distance like they recognise me.
I step outside.
The door clicks shut.
The plan is simple.
Walk the perimeter.
Watch the house.
Wait for the moment she’s alone enough for me to send the next thing.
Something worse.
Something better.
Something she’ll feel between her legs and in her lungs and in her nightmares.
