Panic hits hard and fast.
My eyes dart around the apartment. Door locked. Windows closed. Nothing overturned. Nothing broken.
Ella.
I’m down the hall before my brain catches up, easing her door open just enough to see the bed.
She’s there.
Curled on her side, hair fanned across the pillow, breathing slow and even. One arm tucked beneath her chin like she’s done since she was little.
I stand there too long, watching her chest rise. Fall. Rise again.
Safe.
The relief nearly buckles my knees.
And then it curdles.
They stood right there. Close enough to hear me breathe. Close enough to watch my chest rise and fall while I slept.
They saw me like this. Exposed. Helpless.
My stomach flips, heat rushing up my spine, and cold sweat breaking out along my back. They could’ve killed me. I wouldn’t have woken up. I would’ve just… stopped.
My legs give out halfway to the kitchen. I grab a towel and scrub at the wall, hard enough to burn. The red smears instead of lifting, streaking into something uglier. Paint—or blood. I can’t tell, and I don’t want to.
I gag.
A pipe knocks inside the wall, and I flinch violently, towel slipping from my hands. Everything feels louder now. Sharper. Like the silence is waiting to pounce.
This doesn’t feel real. It feels staged. Like I’m still asleep and my brain hasn’t let me wake up yet.
But the smell is still there. And the words don’t fade.
Think.I have to think.
I rip one of the hallway tapestries off the wall and tack it over the message with shaking hands. I miss the drywall once. Twice. The thumbtack sinks into my finger, and I don’t even feel it. The blood beads up, bright and stupid.
Just another stain.
It covers most of it. It’ll have to be enough.
I slide down the wall, hugging myself tight, knees drawn in. I should call someone. The police. Cami. Somebody.
The thought of his name tightens something ugly in my chest.
What would I even say?
The duffel Cami sent sits beside the couch. Cash. Burner phone. Clothes. A folded note in her sharp handwriting reminding me to keep my head down, limit contact, and stay alive. She thought of everything.
Seven people are dead. Alessandra was just the first.
This isn’t about drugs anymore. Drugs are supposed to keep people coming back. This is slaughter. Someone who looks like me, using something that looks like my work, is murdering people on purpose.
And the world is already deciding it’s me.
My face. My drug. My fault.
