She looks at the paper in her hands and nods.
I input the address into my phone’s GPS.
When we pull up to the pharmacy drive-through window, Tigerlily talks through the back window and gives them her name and birthdate. They confirm the prescription.
“Where to after this?” Zephyr asks, turning around in the passenger seat while they put together her medication.
I watch her throat work in the rearview mirror. A swallow. A pause.
Her eyes flick to mine and hold for a second.
“I don’t know,” she says quietly.
Then she looks back at Zephyr.
Callum leans forward. “Do you think the cops locked up your house?”
“I don’t know.”
Zephyr looks at me. I look back.
The pharmacist returns with a white paper bag. Callum reaches past Tigerlily and hands over his card before she can even think about paying.
Her cheeks turn pink.
We drive toward her house in silence because she’s going to need clothes and her phone and her school things. We made a unified decision without actually discussing it. Just understood that’s where we’re going.
But when I park in the driveway, I catch her staring at the house. She’s frozen. Eyes fixed on the front door. Face pale.
I can’t quite read her expression beyond that. Grief maybe. Fear. Something heavier than both.
Callum is quick to get out and reach for her gently, opening her door and breaking whatever spell she was under.
Zephyr and I follow as they make their way up the walkway to the front door.
Callum reaches for the knob and turns it. But the door doesn’t open.
“It’s locked,” he sighs.
Zephyr and Callum exchange a look, already calculating which window might be easiest to break into.
But I keep watching Tiger.
She’s staring at the flower bed next to the porch. Then she bends down slowly, favoring her injured arm, and picks up a brick half-buried in the dirt.
There’s a key underneath.
She winces when she tries to place the brick back with one hand, so I grab her free arm to steady her.
“Don’t push yourself,” I mutter, taking the key from her palm.
Her eyes stay on mine for a moment. Something vulnerable passes between us.
“I’m fine,” she whispers, voice giving in. It reminds me why I stormed into her house in the first place. He had his hands wrapped around her neck, crushing her throat.
I unlock the door and push it open.
The smell hits me first. Stale air. Dried blood. Something probably rotting in the kitchen.
