Chapter Twenty-Two
Berkley
I take a deep breath, slow and deliberate, holding it until the pressure in my lungs forces me to let go.
The tremble in my hands fades, and the buzzing in my ears dulls just enough for me to focus.
I let the breath ground me, anchor me back in my body, and when I open my eyes again, the room comes into sharper clarity—no longer a haze of memory and emotion, but a real, physical space I can finally confront.
My first instinct was right.
The room is pristine. Immaculate, almost disturbingly so.
Nothing has been moved or touched, but it’s clear someone still comes in here.
Dust doesn’t settle on any surface. The air doesn’t hold the weight of time or neglect, just a strange sort of curated stillness—like a shrine rather than a bedroom.
It’s untouched yet deliberately maintained, preserved like something sacred and dangerous all at once.
It hasn’t been lived in for a long time. That much is obvious.
And in that realization, I know I was right—she hasn’t been here.
Not in any meaningful way. Not in years.
The hollowness that wraps itself around this room like a second skin tells me everything I need to know.
Reign has been gone—really gone—for longer than they’ve let on, and they’ve kept this room like a secret, suspended in time.
My eyes drift over the details, each one hitting harder than I expected.
The blinds are drawn halfway, slanted just enough to let in thin strips of silver moonlight that stripe across the hardwood floor.
They cast long shadows across the bed, the dresser, the empty chair by the window.
The walls are still covered in photos—perfectly framed and hung with intention.
Some are black and white, stylized like old magazine covers, while others are candid, blurred around the edges, almost too personal.
Her face stares back at me from nearly every frame, frozen in moments of laughter, reflection, defiance.
And then there’s the bed.
It punches the breath from my lungs.
The bedding is the same.
Crisp white sheets tucked tight, a pale gray comforter folded with almost military precision, not a single wrinkle out of place.
But it’s the pillows that stop me cold—because they’re exactly where they were that night.
Angled just the same. One slightly askew.
One indented, as if someone had just been there and gotten up too fast. My vision wavers, chest tightening, because that image has haunted my nightmares for too long.
This bed. That night. The way everything spiraled.
Blood that shouldn’t have been there. Words that should’ve been spoken.
I stand there for what feels like hours, taking it all in. The stale perfection and curated silence. The aching absence of someone who’s supposed to be part of this family but instead feels like a ghost lingering in plain sight.
This room was never meant to be revisited.
And now that I’m standing in it, I can’t help but wonder if I’m trespassing in something sacred… or if I’ve just stepped into the center of the lie they’ve all been carefully protecting.
Either way, I’m not leaving this room until I find what they don’t want me to see.
I didn’t come this far to turn back empty-handed, not after everything I’ve endured just to get to this point.
Something about this place—it’s too perfect, too curated, like someone’s gone to great lengths to make sure nothing feels out of place.
But perfection has its own kind of silence, and I’ve learned that it’s usually hiding something.
I scan the room again, slower this time, careful not to miss even the smallest detail.
But there’s nothing obvious. No loose floorboards.
No drawers slightly ajar. Everything is exactly where it’s meant to be.
Every book lined up on the shelf. Every picture perfectly straight.
No jewelry scattered. No clothes tossed across a chair.
It’s sterile. Too clean. Almost clinical.
Like a hotel room no one ever checked into.
But I know her better than that.
She wouldn’t leave something important out in the open, not with this many eyes and secrets crawling through this house.
No—if Reign wanted to keep something hidden, something meant only for me, she would’ve tucked it in a place even the others wouldn’t think to look.
A place we used when we were younger—when secrets felt like stories instead of survival. Somewhere small, forgotten. Ours.
The air conditioning vent.
My gaze darts to the corner beside her bed, heart picking up speed.
That vent. We found it together when we were teenagers, sneaking cigarettes and notes and little glass bottles of cheap liquor into the room when no one was paying attention.
It’s small, tucked low to the floor, and hidden by her nightstand.
Unless you knew it was there, you’d never think to check.
I move quickly but silently, slipping to the side of the bed and pressing my hands to the smooth wood of the nightstand.
I grit my teeth and push, careful to keep the movement quiet as the legs scrape lightly across the floor.
Dust scatters underneath, and my stomach tightens as the small metal vent comes into view.
There it is.
Unassuming. Overlooked. Forgotten by everyone but me.
I crouch down, knees hitting the cold hardwood, and run my fingers along the edge of the grate. The metal is cool beneath my touch, but it’s loose—just like we left it. Just like she would’ve left it if she wanted someone like me to come looking.
I don’t know what I’m going to find inside.
But I know Reign.
And if she left something hidden here… it wasn’t meant for them.
It was meant for me.
My fingers tremble as I work the vent cover loose, the metal cool and gritty beneath my touch.
It resists at first—just enough to make my breath hitch—but then it gives with a soft creak, the sound barely audible in the quiet stillness of the room.
My heart thuds hard against my ribcage, a deep, rhythmic pounding that echoes in my ears as I peer into the narrow space behind the grate.
There, nestled in the dustless darkness like it’s been waiting for me all along, is a small, worn cell phone and a folded piece of paper.
For a moment, I don’t move. I just stare, eyes wide, pulse surging with a blend of adrenaline and dread.
The phone is old, the kind we used to carry around in high school—thick with age, scratches lining the plastic edges, the familiar chipped corner that tells me exactly whose it is.
Reign’s. The one she used to guard like it held state secrets. And maybe, back then, it did.
I reach in carefully, my fingertips brushing the cold metal before curling around the paper and the phone.
They feel too light to carry the weight they suddenly press into my chest. I sit back slowly, leaning against the side of her bed for support as the letter unfolds in my hand like it’s made of glass.
My legs feel numb, and my lungs are tighter with each passing second, like I’m bracing for something I’m not ready to read.
The folded paper is thick, like it was meant to last. My name is written across the front in perfect, looping cursive—the kind of penmanship that always made Reign’s notes look like something out of a storybook.
Elegant. Unmistakable. It’s her handwriting.
No doubt in my mind. The sight of it makes my stomach twist violently.
I swallow hard, trying to keep the rising tide of emotion at bay.
Dread curls low and slow in my gut, sticky and cold, but I force myself not to give in to it.
I won’t assume the worst—not yet. Maybe she left this for me as a precaution.
Maybe it’s nothing more than an old memory she didn’t want to lose.
But deep down, a part of me knows better.
My hands are shaking as I clutch the letter and the phone to my chest, staring at my name in the dim light like it might suddenly explain everything.
And for the first time in this search, I’m afraid of finding out the truth.
The paper is creased from being folded tightly, the edges slightly worn.
It feels delicate. Rushed. Like it was written in a hurry, in fear.
Despite that, Reign’s handwriting is unmistakable.
The sharp slant, the sweeping loops—it’s hers.
Even in panic, she writes like she’s painting her thoughts in ink.
My fingers tremble as I unfold it fully, the silence in the room stretching so long and thick that I feel like I’m underwater. The world narrows to just me and her voice echoing off the page.
Berk,
I was devastated when they told me you burned in that fire along with your father.
But I stopped believing a damn word that comes out of his mouth, so I’m not taking the chance.
I’ve got to explain… but I don’t have time to say everything I want, and I don’t even know if you’ll ever read this.
God, I hope you don’t. I hope I get the chance to tell you in person, to stand in front of you and make you see that I mean it.
I hope I can look you in the eye and say I’m sorry, and that it actually matters.
But if I can’t—if something happens—then at least you’ll hear me here.
I love you. I never stopped. You were always more than just my best friend.
You were my anchor. My person. My sister.
And I am so sorry for bringing you here that night.
I thought it would be okay. I thought it would be safe, and that we could have a girl’s night with them being out of town at the conference.
I didn’t know the boys would be gone. I would never have taken that risk if I had known. Never.