I will never let them take away my home. Not again. I swear in my life.
49
— • —
Mira
My mother’s handwriting got worse toward the end.
The first entries in Sienna’s journal were measured. Clinical language.
I flipped forward. Fifty pages in, the clinical language cracked.
“The subject became‘the lycan,’“ I muttered, tracing her words with my finger. “Then‘him.’And then...”
I stopped on an entry dated three years before her death.
‘F refused food again today. The burns on his wrists have worsened. I told the guards the restraints needed adjustment for “research accuracy.” They believed me. I don’t know how much longer the excuses will hold.’
“F.” I read the initial aloud. Turned it over in my mouth. A prisoner she’d named with a single letter, the way you disguise someone you’re protecting. “Who were you, F?”
More pages. The handwriting tilting further, letters pressed harder.
‘They moved him to sublevel two. Restricted access. I had to fabricate a research proposal to justify the clearance. Thiago approved it without reading it. He never reads my research. He reads my schedule, my movements, my phone records, but never the actual work. He doesn’t care what I discover. He cares where I go and who I talk to.’
“Yeah.” I closed my eyes. “I know the type.”
Because I did. Not Thiago specifically, but the architecture of him. The partner who monitored your location but never asked about your day. I shook my head before I fully remembered my disgusting ex.
The next entry was dated six months before her death.
‘I’ve found the tunnels. Drainage system beneath sublevel two connects to the eastern forest. The guards don’t patrol them because officially they don’t exist. F is too weak to shift but he can walk. If I can get his silver levels down enough for him to manage the distance, the eastern exit puts him two miles from the tree line along with some others.’
“You were planning a prison break.” I stared at the page. “Mom, you absolute madwoman.”
The journal stopped four pages later. Mid-sentence, mid-thought, the ink trailing off.
‘I have to move tonight. T knows about the’
“T.” I didn’t need to guess that one. “Thiago.”
He’d found out. And four pages of silence told me everything the journal couldn’t.
I closed it and pressed it against my chest and sat on my bed and breathed until the urge to scream passed.
A knock interrupted the breathing exercise.
“Mira? It’s Elaine. I need to discuss your follow-up labs.”
I’d been dodging her lately, canceling the scheduled bloodwork twice, claiming training exhaustion the first time and a headache the second. I’d refused the bloodwork during my first visit weeks ago and hadn’t gone back.
To a doctor with fifteen years of experience, a patient who presented with nausea, fatigue, and elevated heart rate then refused labs and disappeared was a blinking neon sign.
I shoved the journal under my pillow and opened the door.
Elaine stood in the hallway with a tablet tucked under her arm and the expression of a woman who had been put off long enough.
“I’m fine,” I said. “Just busy with the research Thiago assigned.”
