The darkness. There are no windows in here. The light above my head was a luxury I could earn, but most times I did not.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
My lungs aren’t working.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
My vision swims.
One. Two. Three. Four?—
And then I see them.
The letters.
My letters, or photocopies of them.
All of them.
Every single one I’ve written is stapled to the walls in neat rows.
Three things, Clover. Touch three things.
They’re organized by date. By year. My life laid out in chronological order. My pain, displayed like wallpaper.
I’m going to throw up.
It’s a timeline of my life presented like evidence in a murder investigation.
The murder of the life I was never meant to have.
Because that’s what this is, isn’t it? The systematic destruction of Clover Danforth. The girl who thought she was writing love letters to her lost childhood sweetheart. The girlwho poured her heart onto paper, never knowing that every word was being read by the one woman I thought had saved me.
And then it clicks—the timeline. Six months ago, I wrote about hiring someone to find Valen. A private investigator, maybe. Someone who could tell me once and for all if he was alive, if he remembered me, if there was any hope left.
Maybe that letter was the trigger. Miriam realized I might actually find him—on my own terms, outside of her control. So she started writing back, pretending to be him, feeding me just enough hope to keep me passive. Waiting. Exactly where she wanted me.
The scream works its way up from my gut. Rolling and gaining speed and velocity until it escapes my lips.
I don’t mean to, but the sound rips out of me like something alive and desperate. Valen’s with me the next second. He grips my shoulders, turning me away from the walls, tucking me into his muscular chest.
“Don’t look,” he’s saying, his voice rough and panicked. “Clover, don’t look?—”
But I can’t stop. I am the accident everyone cranes their head to view. Even I twist in his arms to get a better look at the horror show that is my life.
There are photos too. I notice them now that Valen’s touch grounds me to the moment.
So. Many. Photos.
Me at Blissful Beans & Leaves in Happiness. Me walking Wrecks. Me at the grocery store. Me with my nose pressed to the window of my own freaking home. Me laughing with Madi and Savvy at the Chug.
She took these.
I claw at my skin, feeling dirty and itchy.
She was there in those moments when I felt secure and happy. She was watching me, photographing me, studying me like I’m an insect pinned to her board.
There are notes too. Red ink. Harsh, slashing handwriting that makes my stomach turn.
