Someone wants it continued.
I shut the journal and rest my hand on top of it like a promise.
“Queens of secrets,” I murmur to the empty room, amused. “How dramatic.”
And yet.
I can’t deny it.
There’s a comfort in finding proof that you’re not alone in your particular brand of wrong.
Not comfort like warmth.
Comfort like a weapon fitting perfectly in your hand.
I finish my tea. I leave the mug on the table without washing it, because I’m not here to be a good girl. I’m here to understand the game that was being played long before anyone bothered to invite me.
As I stand, the journal heavy under my arm, my gaze flicks to the window. Outside, the convent grounds are dark, the garden statues pale shapes in moonlight. The bell tower rises above the roofline, silent.
Watching.
I smirk to myself.
“Fine,” I whisper, as if the building can hear me. “I’m watching too.”
And then I take the journal back to my room, close the door, and slide it under my mattress like a secret that has teeth.
The next morning I show up at Hearth & Hands looking like a Hallmark card. The director waves from her office window, mouthingYou’re an inspiration.I mouthThank youback, teeth gleaming.
Inside, I organize donations, talk to a girl named Marissa who’s trying to escape her abusive ex, and file it all away. Not the clothes—the stories.
I think of the journal I found last night.
The Daughters of Persephone.
I think about how every woman at Hearth & Hands thinks I’m their ally.
And I am.
Until I need something else.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Shae
The next afternoon, I’m curled up on the couch with my phone, scrolling social media like my thumb is trying to sandpaper my thoughts smooth. It doesn’t work. Iris keeps cycling back—her voice, her confidence, the way she saidnearbylike a promise.
I think about all the nights Sophie and I spent hiding under my bed or huddled in the closet while our dad raged downstairs. My parents didn’t protect me from monsters. They taught me how to become one. And where was Iris then? I know nothing about her life. She could still be lying.
For a full minute, I consider packing up and leaving—another town, another identity, somewhere warmer. Palm Beach. Hilton Head. Anywhere but here. But Iris feels like the kind of problem that follows. No running. That’s not my style anyway.
Three loud knocks rip me out of my spiral.
“Shae,” he calls, voice thick, careless with my name like it belongs to him. “I know you’re in there.”
I groan. Of course he does.
I set my phone down carefully. If this were a documentary, this is where they’d zoom in on my hands and drop inominous music. But my hands are steady. My pulse is boring. Disappointing, really.
