Then?
I move.
I step out of the woods like a shadow with teeth, boots silent on the grass, heart steady in a way it hasn’t been since I left the prison gates. The house rises up in front of me—white stone, wide glass, trimmed hedges too perfect for the chaos it’s holding inside.
I walk through the side garden, fingers brushing the ivy-covered wall. Noah thinks this place is secure, thinks money can buy safety, thinks locks mean ownership.
He has no idea.
I slip through the gate he forgot to latch.
I cross the patio.
I slide open the back door without a sound.
The house greets me like it recognises me.
Like it’s been waiting.
Warm air hums around me— scented with polished wood, lemon cleaning spray, and the faintest trace of the drink she spilled last week when she dropped a glass during an argument she pretended she didn’t have.
I step inside fully.
Close the door.
The click echoes in the dark like a promise.
My eyes adjust instantly.
The living room glows with the dim light of a lamp left on to make the house feel “safe.” It isn’t. Not from me.
Scarlett is on the floor by the sofa—half on the rug, half off—slumped, soft, barely conscious. Her hair spills around her like a halo torn apart. Her dress slips off one shoulder. Her chest rises in uneven breaths, each one shallow like she’s fighting her own lungs.
Her hand twitches.
Her lips part.
A tiny sound escapes.
My name.
Barely formed.
Broken by chemicals she never should’ve tasted.
My pulse spikes.
Low.
Dark.
Violent at the edges.
I step toward her slow, deliberate, each footstep a reminder of how little distance exists between want and ruin.
“Hello, little sister.”
My voice is soft, but the words cut the air open.
