22. Keira
KEIRA
T he room is too quiet. Like it’s waiting for something to wake up. Devoid of life, devoid of soul. It’s clean and well kept, but the ice floating on the air tells me this room hasn’t been lived in for years.
I step inside, and the door clicks shut behind me. The sound ricochets through my spine like a gunshot, sharp and final. This is my new cage—polished wood, heavy drapes, antique furniture that holds a wealth of history and not much else. I half expect a ghost to whisper my name from the wardrobe.
Jayson called it a “guest room,” but nothing about it feels welcoming.
It feels lonely, empty. The bed is dark mahogany with clawed feet and a high headboard that towers against the wall.
Two velvet pillows sit perfectly aligned—crimson against black.
They’re beautiful, but they remind me of bloodstains on satin.
I hover near the edge of the bed like I’m afraid it might bite.
The covers are tucked so perfectly, the pillows fluffed like they’re guarding some secret.
I don’t want to sit—don’t want to crease the smooth surface or leave a mark that says I was here .
It feels wrong to touch something so perfectly untouched .
But I know I’ll have to. Eventually, when the weight in my chest gets too heavy and my body starts to fold in on itself, I’ll peel back those sheets.
I’ll slip between them like a trespasser, dragging my past in with me, dirtying the silence with my breath.
I’ll lie there and pretend this room isn’t watching me back.
Pretend the bed isn’t some kind of altar, waiting to swallow me whole.
Instead, I drift to the window. It’s so old, an ancient relic of the past, that the handle doesn’t turn.
I push anyway. The glass rattles but doesn’t give.
Outside, the estate spreads out in muted shades of green and gray, fog licking at the trees like some feral thing.
It’s beautiful, in a gothic haunted manor sort of way.
But the silence here isn’t peace. It’s a warning of things to come.
A low humming buzzes at the base of my skull—the kind that hints at memories you’ve tried to drown, clawing their way up for air.
I toss my bag on the chair. The wardrobe is empty, but smells of cedar and old perfume. Someone once lived in this room. I can feel them lingering in the shadows. Watching. Judging. Or maybe that’s just me.
I strip down and pull on an oversized sweater from my bag. The fabric is soft and familiar, the only comfort in an otherwise twisted scenario.
Night creeps in slowly, slithering up the walls. I stretch out on the bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling. The moonlight drips through the window, casting crooked shadows across the plaster. I trace the patterns with my eyes—lines that twist into shapes… then faces.
Into her face.
I’m fourteen again.
The world feels wide and full of promise, like nothing bad could ever touch us. Not really.
We’re in the woods, and Riley’s laughing—loud and careless, the way she always did when she thought no one was watching. Like the world belonged to her. Like she couldn’t imagine it ever not bending to her will.
She has no idea what’s coming.
“Let’s go to the lake,” she says, eyes shining. “It’ll be iconic.”
And we go. Of course we go. Riley could’ve said let’s rob a bank and we’d have followed her into the vault.
The air grows colder as we near the water, the hush of the trees thick with secrets. The vodka burns in my throat as we pass the bottle around, hidden beneath hoodies and nervous giggles.
Someone dares someone else to take off their shirt, and then Riley’s already ahead of us, stripping down to her bra and panties without hesitation, a smirk curving her lips like a secret.
We wade into the lake, one by one, squealing and shivering and laughing like nothing in the world can touch us.
The moonlight paints the surface silver, glittering like a dream. Riley floats on her back, arms spread, hair fanned out around her like a crown of ink. She looks like a goddess. Untouchable.
I remember thinking we’d never grow old. That the night would last forever.
It doesn’t.
A twig snaps in the woods behind us.
We freeze.
Flashlights cut through the trees. Harsh voices follow—deep, male, too close. Too familiar. The cold in the air shifts. Becomes something else. Something that gnaws under the skin.
Then the hands come.
Big. Brutal. Unrelenting.
One grabs Riley by the arm. She thrashes. Another hand clamps over her mouth. She kicks, screams behind fingers pressed too tight.
Her eyes find mine.
She’s terrified.
She’s begging .
Do something.
My legs won’t move.
Then she’s being dragged back, her nails tearing into the earth as if the dirt itself could save her. Her scream rips through the woods like a flare.
I blink.
She’s there.
I blink again.
She’s gone.
My heart slams into my ribs. My lungs seize. I run.
I don’t think. I run.
Branches whip against my face. My feet slip on wet leaves. The woods blur into a smear of panic and moonlight. But I’m not moving fast enough. I feel like I’m running underwater, every step slow and useless.
It’s like the forest won’t let me go.
And behind me—somewhere in the dark—Riley is still screaming.
I don’t look back.
I can’t.
Because if I do, I’ll fall apart.
The scream cuts off.
Just… stops.
And the silence that follows isn’t peace. It’s a death sentence.
I stop running. Collapse to my knees in the dirt. My chest heaves. My vision spins.
She’s gone.
And I left her.
I didn’t scream for help.
I didn’t go back.
I didn’t fight.
I just left her.
Now she haunts me. In reflections. In dreams. In the pause between heartbeats .
Sometimes, I see her standing at the edge of my bed, soaked in moonlight, blood dripping down her legs. She doesn’t say anything.
She just looks at me with those wide, glassy eyes. Accusation.
You left me.
I hear it even now, like she’s whispering it in the walls.
You left me.
You left me.
You left me.
And I did.
God, I did.
Sweat clings to every inch of me, my breath coming in ragged gasps, my lungs dragging for air that refuses to fill them. The night is too dark. Too heavy. The shadows crawl closer. I feel them.
“No,” I whisper. “No, no, no.”
It’s raining in the woods now. Blood drips from the branches like dew. She’s standing there—Riley—face pale, mouth open, eyes wide. Her dress is torn. One shoe missing. Her lips move.
You left me.
“No,” I say. “I didn’t know ? —”
You watched.
“I didn’t—Riley, I didn’t ? —”
You didn’t scream for me. You didn’t fight for me.
I try to run, but the trees grab my ankles, dragging me down, down, down into the dirt. I claw at the ground, nails cracking, and something cold wraps around my neck—tight.
I scream.
The door crashes open. Wood splinters. A dark shape rushes into the room like a storm let loose.
“Keira!”
Jayson’s voice is jagged, furious and terrified all at once. I barely register the sound of his feet stomping across the floor, or the way his hand grabs my arm—too tight, too fast—trying to snap me out of whatever hell I’ve just crawled out of .
“Keira, you’re dreaming,” he growls, shaking me gently. “It’s a nightmare. Wake up.”
My eyes are wide. Pupils blown. I’m trembling so hard my teeth chatter. I’m not sure I’m even here anymore. I don’t know what’s real and what’s not. Riley’s voice is still in my ear.
You left me.
“I couldn’t save you,” I whisper. “I tried. I?—”
Jayson’s hand tightens on my jaw, forcing me to look at him. His eyes are colder than ice. But behind them… something burns.
“You’re not there anymore,” he says through gritted teeth. “Wherever you were, you’re safe now. You’re in my house. You’re safe, Keira.”
I blink. The shadows curl back into the corners of my mind. Her voice fades. But I’m still not sure if I’m breathing on my own.
I blink again. Once. Twice.
The room tilts sideways, then jerks back into place. My skin is clammy, soaked with sweat. My shirt is plastered to my spine, clinging like the past. My fingers claw uselessly at the blankets, as if I can tear my way back to the present.
I’m not there anymore. I’m not there. But my body doesn’t believe it.
Jayson’s hands stay on me—one cupping my jaw, the other braced against my ribs like he’s trying to hold me together by force alone. His chest rises and falls in uneven bursts, and that fury in his eyes hasn’t softened. Not even a little.
“You’re safe,” he repeats, but now his voice has lost some of the gravel. It’s still rough, still hard—but there’s something under it. Something bruised. Like he finally realizes my trauma.
His hands fall away and he rises. He stands there in the wreckage of my room—of me—his chest rising and falling, jaw clenched so tight I hear it pop. His gaze sweeps the bed, the tangled sheets, my body shaking under them like a trapped thing.
And something inside him cracks.
“Who?” he says, barely audible.
I blink at him, confused.
His fists clench at his sides. “Who did this to you?”
The air thins again. My lungs rebel.
I shake my head. “It’s not—it’s not what you think.”
“Don’t tell me it’s not what I think,” he snaps. “I think someone hurt you. I think you wake up screaming because someone broke you open and left you bleeding.”
He’s pacing now, slow and feral, the kind of rage that builds without sound. Controlled. Dangerous. The kind that ends with someone buried six feet under and no one ever asking where the body went.