My fingers curl.
I take another step toward the house — slow, steady, razor-sharp — and the obsession claws up my spine all over again.
“I’m coming back in,” I tell the dark. “Tonight. Tomorrow. Doesn’t matter.”
A promise.
A sentence.
A sentence she’ll serve with me.
“And the next time she says she loves me,” I whisper, grin cutting sharp across my face, “I’m going to be close enough to feel her breath when she says it.”
I walk deeper into the trees.
Toward her.
Toward the house she’s slowly falling apart inside.
Toward the life I’m going to take back piece by piece.
And under my breath, soft enough that only the night hears it, I say her name one more time.
“Scarlett.”
My little sister.
My little liar.
My unfinished sin.
I’m not done with her.
Not even close.
Scarlett
Icome back to myself the slow, ugly way — dragged through sleep like I’m being pulled across gravel.
My eyes open in pieces.
Light slams into me.
A sharp, white-hot stab behind my temples makes me flinch like someone hit me.
The living room ceiling swims overhead, chandelier blurred into a glowing smear. My mouth tastes like sour wine and regret. My throat is raw. My body stiff. My robe twisted around my waist. My hair stuck to my cheek with dried tears.
The bottle lies on the carpet beside the sofa.
My phone is still in my hand.
And the locket is still around my neck.
Heavy.
Cold.
Branding.
