The first snick of the pruning shears sent a branch whipping violently into Ava’s shoulder as if the garden had decided to fight back. She muttered something under her breath—something not very lady-like—and swung the shears again, this time with the precision of someone who had no idea what they were doing. Another branch slashed her hand, leaving a faint red mark on her pale skin.
Faith, coffee mug in hand, leaned against her front porch railing, hidden by the hedges. From her vantage point, she had the perfect view of Ava waging what could only be described as a war against the jungle that had consumed her garden. Faith sipped her coffee, watching as Ava’s pristine black clothing snagged on vines, each time met with an increasingly dramatic sigh.
"Get off me," Ava growled, yanking at a particularly stubborn vine that had wrapped itself around her ankle like it had a vendetta.
Faith raised an eyebrow. Looks like the garden’s winning.
She didn’t say it out loud, though. The creepy lady’s fight was too entertaining to interrupt.
Ava leaned forward, aiming her shears at a branch that seemed to mock her by swaying just out of reach. She lunged, missed, and stumbled, landing knee-deep in a patch of weeds that had somehow grown tall enough to resemble a forest.
Faith almost choked on her coffee trying not to laugh. It wasn’t every day you saw someone like Ava—otherworldly, ageless, and usually composed—reduced to swatting at plants like they were mosquitoes at a backyard barbecue.
“Who knew gardening could be so… aggressive?” Faith muttered to herself.
Ava straightened, brushing dirt off her hands with an air of forced dignity. Her hair, usually immaculate, had a rogue leaf sticking out of it. The pruning shears dangled limply from one hand, the other hand pressed to her hip in a universal gesture of frustration.
From behind the bushes, Faith took another sip of coffee. “She’s going to kill herself with those shears before she kills a single weed,” she murmured.
Then Ava did something that made Faith nearly spit out her coffee entirely. She hissed—actually hissed—at the garden, like a cat defending its territory.
Faith dipped her nose into her coffee mug, and tried not to snicker. “Nope. Not my problem,” she muttered to herself. “She’s probably into that whole ‘nature reclaiming itself’ aesthetic. Let her be.”
Let her be, her inner voice echoed with a sharpness that made her grip her mug tighter. That’s the plan. Smart plan. You don’t know her. You don’t want to know her.
“I don’t,” Faith said aloud, though she wasn’t sure who she was trying to convince. “She gives me the creeps”
Exactly. Creepy looking, creepy vibe, big, creepy house. She’s weird. Let her wrestle her own bushes.
Faith took another sip, watching as Ava managed to snag her entire sleeve on a thorny branch, up to her shoulder. With a soundless sigh, Ava tried to tug it loose, only to overbalance and nearly topple into the brambles. Faith winced.
See? She’s not even good at gardening, her inner voice offered. Why get involved?
Faith frowned. “I don’t have to get involved. I’m just… observing.”
Observing is one step away from meddling. And you know it.
“I don’t meddle,” Faith said, scowling at her reflection in the coffee. “I’m just—”
—thinking about how easily you could fix that garden.
Faith bristled. “She’s not my problem.”
Exactly. And you’ve already decided she’s best avoided. Remember? Weird vibes, weird house. Alone for a reason.
Faith shifted on the porch, uncomfortable now. Her gaze drifted back to Ava, who had finally freed her sleeve only to drop her shears into the weeds. Ava straightened slowly, her posture rigid with frustration, her gaze sweeping over the chaos around her. For a moment, she stood still, the picture of someone out of their depth but too stubborn to admit it.
“She’s just a woman,” Faith murmured, her voice soft. “A weird, lonely woman. Alone in that huge house.”
Exactly, her inner voice shot back. Weird. Lonely. Leave her to it.
Faith turned toward the door but hesitated, thinking of her old rooftop garden in the city. She sighed remembering how she could make anything grow up there. The weeds choking Ava’s garden looked like they’d been growing unchecked for decades, but beneath the chaos, she could see glimpses of something beautiful. Flowerbeds fighting to bloom. Roses reaching for sunlight through the tangle. It would take hours—days, even—to fix it, but Faith knew she could.
“She’s not a bad person,” Faith muttered to herself. “Just… different.”
Different? her inner voice scoffed. She insulted your drawing and made you cry. You’re just looking for an excuse.
Faith stared down into her coffee mug, her resolve wavering. “Maybe I judged her too harshly.”
You didn’t. She’s not your problem.
“But she’s struggling,” Faith whispered. “And I know how to help.”
You also know how to mind your own business. Try that.
A sound of snapping branches drew her attention back to the garden. Ava had dropped the shears again and was trying to pull a particularly stubborn vine out by hand. The vine didn’t budge, but Ava did—straight into the dirt. Faith bit back a laugh, the corners of her mouth twitching. Ava sat in the dirt for a moment, brushing her hands off with an air of forced dignity that was almost impressive.
“Okay,” Faith muttered, setting her mug down with a little more force than necessary. “I’ll help. But only because of the plants.”
Sure. The plants, her inner voice said, dripping with sarcasm.
“I mean it,” Faith insisted, grabbing her sunglasses from the porch table. “This has nothing to do with her. I just can’t stand to see that poor garden suffer.”
Keep telling yourself that.
Faith stepped off the porch, shaking her head at herself as she crossed the lawn. As she approached the garden, Ava glanced up, her sharp eyes narrowing slightly. Faith raised a hand in greeting, her voice light.
“Hello?”
"Damn thing," Ava muttered, glaring at the branch like it had personally insulted her heritage. She yanked at it with the pruning shears, only for the branch to snap back with enough force to nearly slap her in the face. She froze for a moment, as though the branch had dared her to try again.
From a few steps away, Faith sighed loud enough to shatter the morning quiet. “You know it’s going to win, right?”
Ava’s head snapped up, her usual air of untouchable grace slightly marred by her death grip on the shears. “I don’t lose fights,” she said, her voice cold enough to frost the leaves. Unfortunately, her dignity took a hit when she fumbled the shears, nearly dropping them. “This garden,” she added, recovering quickly, “is just… temperamental.”
Faith crossed her arms, leaning slightly on one hip as she surveyed the overgrown disaster before her. “Temperamental? That’s not a garden. That’s a jungle. And you’re out here like you’re trying to wrangle it into submission. No wonder it’s fighting back.”
Ava blinked at her, the cool mask slipping for just a moment as she glanced between Faith and the rebellious branch. “It’s a garden,” she insisted, but the words lacked conviction.
Faith smirked. “Sure”
Faith watched as Ava took the shears in both hands and tugged against the tangle of branches that had gotten stuck in between the blades.
“Give me those.” Faith offered with her hand out to Ava.
Ava froze mid-tug, and the branches miraculously released their grip on the blades, leaving them dangling in her fingers. She turned slowly, like she was a bit surprised anyone had dared interrupt her duel with the flora. Her sharp eyes met Faith’s, narrowing slightly, and for a second, Faith wondered if Ava was considering saying no just out of sheer pride.
But then Ava’s mouth curled into the faintest of smiles. Not a warm, neighborly smile, mind you—more like a “let’s see what you can do” kind of smile, with just a dash of “I’m still in charge here.” She handed over the shears with a flourish that felt way too graceful for someone who’d just lost a fight to a rose bush.
“Be my guest,” Ava said, stepping back with an air that was half curiosity, half “don’t mess this up.”
The shears felt solid in Faith’s hand, and she shot a glance at Ava, who was now watching her with the same level of intensity most people reserved for reality competition shows. If Faith didn’t know better, she’d think Ava was cataloging her every move for some kind of secret file. Not that she believed in conspiracy theories or anything, but the woman gave off vibes.
Faith turned to the mess of tangled greenery, ignoring the weird itch at the back of her mind that said this was a bad idea. “Let’s see,” she muttered, more to herself than to Ava. The garden was a disaster, sure—but Faith had always been good at coaxing life out of chaos. She just hoped that included whatever strange, unspoken thing she’d just signed up for.
Faith rolled up her sleeves and stepped into the jungle—er, garden. With a few well-placed snips, the branches that had been flailing wildly in Ava’s general direction began to look, if not entirely tamed, at least less homicidal. The shears were old but very sharp, and they felt right in her hands like they’d been waiting for someone who actually knew what they were doing.
She moved with practiced ease, tugging at weeds that had taken up permanent residence, trimming back bushes that had clearly been holding secret meetings about overthrowing the trellis, and gently brushing dirt off struggling flowers as if to say, Hey, it’s okay. You’re safe now. Faith knew plants. She understood their language in a way that Ava—despite her air of omniscient detachment—clearly didn’t. Plants liked a little love, a little discipline, and maybe just the faintest hint of passive-aggressive encouragement.
Ava stood off to the side, arms crossed, her dark dress blending with the shadows under the trees. She wasn’t saying much, which was probably for the best. Faith didn’t need a running commentary while trying to convince a rose bush not to eat the cat.
The pile of discarded vines and dead branches grew steadily at Faith’s feet, a testament to years of neglect meeting one very stubborn woman with a pair of shears. As she wiped the sweat from her brow, she caught Ava watching her with that same inscrutable expression she always seemed to wear, like she was analyzing Faith’s movements for a chess game Faith didn’t even know they were playing.
“You’re not bad at this,” Ava finally said, breaking the silence.
“Thanks,” Faith replied, not looking up. “Comes with the territory. Plants don’t argue with you, and they don’t cancel on you last minute, which is more than I can say for most people.”
Ava tilted her head slightly, as if that answer had been just intriguing enough to file away. “Shouldn’t you be at the bakery today? Or do pastries bake themselves now?”
Faith snorted, tossing a tangle of ivy into the growing pile. “I do get a day off now and then. Delia’s got it under control. It’s her shop. I’m just the glorified dough-puncher.”
“Hmm,” Ava murmured, her eyes trailing Faith’s hands as they expertly untangled a particularly knotted vine. “And this is how you spend your day off?”
Faith paused, turning to look at Ava with one eyebrow raised. “What can I say? I live for the excitement. Next, I’m thinking of color-coding my sock drawer.”
That earned her a faint twitch of Ava’s lips—was it a smile? Maybe. Hard to tell with her.
Faith shook her head and returned to her work. The garden was responding. Flowers she’d barely noticed before were beginning to peek out, relieved of the crushing weight of weeds. The air seemed lighter, fresher, like the space itself had been holding its breath and was finally letting go.
She attacked a particularly stubborn patch of crabgrass, her hands moving with the efficiency of someone who had spent far too much time figuring out exactly what made invasive species tick. Meanwhile, Ava watched her with a kind of quiet fascination, like a scientist observing an unexpected phenomenon in a lab experiment.
By the time Faith straightened up again, her back aching and her hands covered in dirt, the yard looked… better. Not perfect—nothing ever was—but you could see the shape of what it once had been. A space full of life and potential, waiting for someone to care enough to coax it out.
Faith leaned on a tree trunk, glancing at Ava. “Well, it’s a start.”
Ava nodded slowly, her gaze sweeping the now-neat pathways and trimmed hedges. “You’ve done more in an afternoon than I’ve managed in… a while.”
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“Yeah, well,” Faith said, dusting off her hands, “it’s not rocket science. You just have to give things room to grow.”
The words hung in the air for a moment, and Faith regretted them almost immediately. Too profound. Too revealing. She cleared her throat and gestured to the pile of debris. “So, you got a compost bin or something, or are we just pretending this mess doesn’t exist?”
Ava’s lips quirked again in that almost smile. “I’ll… figure something out.”
Faith snorted. “That’s what I thought.” She set the shears down and stretched, feeling every muscle protest. “Well, I should head back…Trouble…,” she trailed off.
As Faith walked away, she felt Ava’s gaze lingering on her back. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d just stepped into something bigger than a garden clean-up. But for now, it was enough that the garden looked like a place where things might grow again. Even if she wasn’t sure what.
Faith felt… strange. Not bad, exactly. Just… unsettled. Like she’d stumbled into a story that wasn’t hers and somehow ended up holding one of the more interesting chapters. Her hands still smelled faintly of dirt and rosemary as she walked back home, her feet crunching on the gravel. Usually, gardening left her calm and grounded, but this time it felt like she’d shaken something loose.
Ava was an enigma—one of those people who didn’t quite fit anywhere and yet somehow seemed perfectly comfortable in the cracks of the world. Faith didn’t trust her, not entirely. There was something too polished, too calculated about the way Ava moved and spoke, like she was always five steps ahead in a game Faith didn’t know the rules to. But there was also something oddly vulnerable about her, especially out there in that garden. Struggling with branches and vines like a woman out of her depth. Like someone who wasn’t used to asking for—or accepting—help.
Faith rubbed at her hands absently, her thumb brushing a spot where a thorn had nicked her skin. She hadn’t meant to get involved. The plan was to keep her head down, stay out of Ava’s orbit, and avoid whatever weirdness seemed to cling to her like a shadow. But something about seeing that garden in such a mess, seeing Ava so clearly floundering, had stirred something inside her.
A pang of guilt nudged at her ribs. It wasn’t pity—Faith hated pity, and she figured Ava would too. No, it was more like… recognition. That garden was a disaster, sure, but it wasn’t beyond saving. It just needed someone to care enough to fix it. And wasn’t that the story of everyone’s life? Including her own?
Faith shoved the thought aside as she reached her porch, setting her glasses back on the table by the door. She leaned against the railing, sipping the last of her now-cold coffee and staring at her own overgrown yard that she hadn’t touched in months.
The truth was, Ava unnerved her. Not in a bad way, necessarily, but in a way that made her feel unsteady like she was standing too close to the edge of something without a clear view of the bottom. And yet, for all her unease, she’d spent the better part of her day in that tangled garden, fixing it, helping Ava.
“Great job, Faith,” she muttered under her breath. “Way to stay out of trouble.
The Starlight Inn hadn’t improved much since Ben and Lou’s last visit. The cleanup effort was half-hearted at best, with a few garbage bags propped haphazardly against a dumpster that should have been emptied weeks ago. A sour smell lingered in the air, the unfortunate cocktail of bleach, stale cigarettes, and something far less pleasant. The neon sign still sputtered feebly, as though even it couldn’t muster the energy to light up the place.
“Looks like they’re really pulling out all the stops,” Lou muttered, eyeing the debris scattered near the edge of the lot. A broken chair leg and a stained pillow peeked out of the trash pile like a post-apocalyptic still life.
“No victim, no murder site, no clean up,” Ben replied, striding toward the manager’s office with his usual determined gait. Lou followed, shaking his head at a mismatched set of curtains fluttering out of one of the room windows.
Inside the office, the same haggard manager looked up from her seat behind the desk. She hadn’t changed much—still in her housecoat, cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth like it was a permanent fixture. She exhaled a plume of smoke and gave them a look that was equal parts annoyance and resignation.
“You again,” she said, as though their presence alone were an affront. “What now?”
Ben held up the photo of the strange writing scratched into the wall. “This. Was it there before Kyle and Rosie moved in?”
The manager squinted at the image, then leaned forward, pulling a pair of reading glasses from the cluttered desk. She studied it for a moment, her lips pursed. “Huh. Don’t think so,” she said finally. “But who can say? People do all kinds of weird shit to these rooms. If it’s bad enough, I make a note and send it to the insurance company.”
Lou cocked an eyebrow. “And was it bad enough for that?”
She leaned back in her chair, the springs creaking ominously, and blew out another cloud of smoke. “I don’t remember. That room got repainted a couple weeks before they moved in, though. Pretty sure I would’ve noticed if someone was already carving up the walls.”
Ben exchanged a glance with Lou. “You’re saying it could’ve been them?”
The manager shrugged, the gesture as dismissive as the ash she flicked into an overflowing tray. “Like I said, people are weird. Scratch all kinds of nonsense into the walls. Pentagrams, initials, love notes. You name it, I’ve seen it.”
Lou frowned. “You don’t think something like this would stand out? It’s not exactly your standard ‘Mike loves Tina’ graffiti.”
The manager tapped her cigarette against the ashtray, her brow furrowed in thought. “Could be. Or maybe I’m just getting old and forgetful. You try running this place and see how much you remember.”
“Do you have a record of the tenants?” Ben asked. But the manager seemed lost in thought.
She muttered to herself then, almost as an afterthought, “Rosie helped me with groceries once. Think I’ve got something with her handwriting on it.”
Ben straightened, his attention snapping to her like a laser. “You have a sample of her handwriting?”
“Maybe,” the manager said, already rummaging through a drawer stuffed with receipts, takeout menus, and other scraps of paper. She grumbled to herself as she dug around, finally pulling out a crumpled piece of paper. “Here. Grocery receipt. Rosie carried my bags that day, and I remember she wrote something on the back. Some kind of note, but I don’t read Spanish.”
She handed the receipt to Ben, who turned it over. The back was scribbled with hasty writing, the pen pressing hard enough to indent the paper.
Lou leaned over his shoulder, squinting at the scrawl. “That makes no sense.”
Ben’s brow furrowed as he deciphered the writing. “‘Ayuda. Próxima. Fe. Ley.’” He trailed off, glancing at Lou.
“What’s that mean?” the manager asked, looking genuinely curious for the first time.
Ben’s lips tightened as he translated. “‘Help. Next. Faith. Law.’”
Lou whistled low. “That’s some life-altering wisdom.”
Ben ignored the sarcasm, his mind already spinning through the implications.
“OK, Do you know anything about that?” he asked the manager, who lit another cigarette and shrugged her bony shoulders.
“Could be names, could be concepts. And ‘next’? Next what? Did she say anything to you? …an explanation?” prodded Ben.
The manager just stared at him through the smoke of her cigarette, clearly uninterested in deciphering any mysteries. “Well, you’ve got your note,” she said, waving them off. “Good luck figuring out whatever the hell it means.”
Ben and Lou exchanged another look. Whatever Rosie had left them, it was more than just a grocery list. And if she’d gone to the trouble of writing it down, it meant she’d been desperate to leave a clue.
Lou pocketed the receipt, his expression grim. “Let’s go figure out what she was trying to say,” he grunted as he turned toward the door.
A few hours later, Ben’s phone buzzed on the desk, the screen lighting up with a notification. He glanced at it distractedly, his attention still on the crumpled grocery receipt in Lou’s hand. The notification read: New Email – Forensics Lab.
“Hang on,” Ben said, reaching for his phone. He unlocked it and opened the email, his expression shifting from curiosity to intrigue as he read.
“What is it?” Lou asked, setting the receipt down.
Ben didn’t answer immediately, his brow furrowing as he scanned the message. Finally, he looked up, his voice calm but carrying an undercurrent of tension. “The lab got back to us. The writing on the wall—it’s Cherokee.”
Lou’s eyebrows shot up. “Cherokee? Like the language or the Jeep?”
“Language,” Ben confirmed, tapping the screen to bring up the photo the lab had included. “They couldn’t translate it completely, but they were able to identify it as Cherokee syllables. The pattern matches. The linguist they consulted said it’s an older dialect.”
Lou leaned in, squinting at the screen. “And what’s it say? Anything useful?”
Ben hesitated, scrolling to the part of the email with the translation notes. “‘A soul. Faith. In need.’ That’s what they could make out.”
Lou leaned back, crossing his arms. “A soul? Faith? What is this, a sermon? And ‘in need’—of what?”
Ben shook his head, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Help, I guess. It’s vague, but it’s deliberate. Whoever left this message had the same understanding about ‘Faith’ as Rosie but they weren’t making it easy to understand.”
Lou frowned, drumming his fingers on the desk. “And why Cherokee? Kyle and Rosie don’t exactly scream ‘Cherokee speakers.’ This doesn’t fit with anything we know about them.”
“Which means it might not be about them,” Ben said, his voice thoughtful. “It could be someone else’s faith or a person named Faith.”
Lou tilted his head, giving Ben a sideways glance. “Oh, now this is bigger? You think we’re dealing with a cult or something? That would explain the freaky symbols and the bloodbath.”
“It’s a possibility,” Ben admitted. He stared at the words on the screen again, as if they might suddenly reveal their full meaning. “Maybe someone knew Rosie and Kyle were in trouble and tried to leave a warning.”
Lou snorted. “Yeah, well, they sure picked a cryptic way to do it. Why not just leave a note in plain English? ‘Hey, watch out for suspicious murdery types? Something normal.”
“Because maybe they couldn’t,” Ben replied, his tone sharper than usual. “Maybe they were trying to protect themselves. Or maybe they didn’t think we’d be the ones to find it.”
The room fell silent for a moment, the weight of the discovery settling over them like a heavy fog. Lou broke the quiet with a wry chuckle, though there was no humor in it. “Well, great. Now we’ve got cryptic Cherokee messages, a vanishing couple, and a garden-variety bloodbath. This case just keeps getting better.”
Ben didn’t respond, his mind already spinning through all the angles. If someone had gone to the trouble of leaving a message in Cherokee, they probably knew that no one could read it. It couldn’t have been meant for Kyle and Rosie. What did the message have to do with the blood?
“Could the perpetrator have written the message on the motel wall,” Ben jotted on a notepad.
“A soul. Faith. In need,” he murmured under his breath, his gaze distant. “What the hell does it mean?”
This time Lou’s phone buzzed against his thigh in his pocket, a persistent vibration that broke the frustration of the two cryptic messages. He glanced at the screen and saw a notification: "Subject match: Rosie Martinez." His heart jumped. Swiping to open the message, he scanned the details quickly.
"Rosie’s been picked up," he said, cutting through the quiet hum of the precinct. His tone drew Ben’s attention immediately.
“Picked up?” he asked, already leaning forward. “Where? When?”
Lou’s eyes flicked back to the screen. “Miami PD found her wandering downtown. Covered in blood, but no serious injuries. They took her to the ER for treatment and handed her over to the CIT.”
Ben sat back, crossing his arms. “So, she’s alive. That’s… something. Where is she now?”
Lou read further. “They transported her to the state psychiatric hospital after she was cleared at Jackson Memorial. She’s on a psych hold.”
He blew his characteristic low whistle. “A psych hold? That’s not the warm and fuzzy reunion I was hoping for, but at least she’s not a corpse in a ditch.”
Ben didn’t reply immediately, his mind racing through the more implications than he could keep up with. “She had minor defensive wounds,” Lou said aloud, though more to himself than to Ben. “That means she fought back.”
“Whatever happened in that motel room… she was part of it,” Ben agreed.
“Which means she’s got answers,” Lou said, leaning over his phone again. “Assuming she’s in any shape to talk.”
Ben stood, grabbing his jacket. “We need to get to her. The hospital might not let us in, but we can at least try to get on her caseworker’s radar.”
Lou grabbed his own jacket, his expression thoughtful. “And maybe see if any of the docs noticed something weird—like Cherokee symbols carved into her arm.”
Ben gave him a sharp look. “Let’s not jump to conclusions.”
“Hey, I’m just saying,” Lou said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “This case is already weird enough. What’s one more twist?”
The state-run psychiatric hospital loomed ahead, its weathered facade giving little hint of the turmoil housed within. The air felt heavy as Ben and Lou walked through the front doors, passing security checkpoints and a metal detector.
After a brief wait, a harried caseworker greeted them in the lobby. She carried a clipboard and wore an expression that suggested she was already three steps behind her schedule.
“Detectives,” she said, her tone polite but brisk. “You’re here about Rosie Martinez?”
Ben nodded. “We need to speak with her. She’s connected to an ongoing investigation.”
The caseworker sighed, flipping through her clipboard. “Ms. Martinez is under observation. She’s in no condition for formal questioning right now—disoriented, non-verbal most of the time. And when she does speak, it’s… fragmented.”
“Fragmented how?” Lou asked, narrowing his eyes.
The caseworker’s brow furrowed. “She’s been through a lot, Detectives. She’s not coherent, and she needs rest. If you want to leave a message or submit questions for her care team to review, we can pass them along.”
Lou opened his mouth, likely to argue, but Ben cut him off with a nod. “We understand,” he said. “We’ll leave the questions.”
As they left the hospital, Lou shook his head. “We’re not getting much out of her anytime soon.”
Ben’s scratched the back of his neck. “Maybe not. But the fact that she’s alive… that’s more than we had this morning.”
“True,” Lou said, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Guess we just have to hope the next thing out of her mouth makes sense. Or at least points us in the right direction.”
Ben nodded, already rerunning the clues in his mind like a broken record. Rosie was alive. She had answers. They just had to figure out how to reach them.
The hospital room was dim, its fluorescent lights buzzing faintly above. Rosie lay on the narrow bed, clutching the thin blanket around her shoulders as though it might shield her from the gnawing terror inside her. She didn’t know how long she’d been there—hours, days, maybe longer. Time seemed to fold in on itself, slipping through her fingers like sand.
And then it came again.
"Stupid girl," hissed the voice, sharp and jagged as broken glass. It cut through her thoughts, forcing her to clutch her temples. "Weak. Helpless. You can’t even breathe without messing it up."
Rosie’s body stiffened. The voice was cruel, relentless, and worst of all, familiar—but not hers. It was a presence, invasive and suffocating, like an invisible weight pressing against her chest. Sometimes it whispered from the shadows, sending shivers racing down her spine. Other times, it clawed its way from the depths of her own mind, coiling tightly around her thoughts until she couldn’t tell where she ended, and it began.
"Shut up," she whispered hoarsely, though she wasn’t sure who she was speaking to. Her voice cracked, raw and uncertain.
The voice didn’t listen. It never did.
"Pathetic," it sneered. "They’ll find out what you did. You’re not safe here. You’re not safe anywhere."
Rosie curled into herself, knees drawn to her chest, trembling. The sterile scent of the room—antiseptic and despair—did nothing to ground her. She closed her eyes tightly, trying to drown out the noise, to banish the presence, but it only grew louder.
"You think you can hide?" the voice continued, mocking now. "You think they’ll believe you? They’ll lock you up forever, or worse."
Rosie whimpered, biting her lip to keep from crying out. The voice didn’t just taunt her—it orchestrated her fear, feeding on it, twisting it into something monstrous. And when she could no longer resist, when the tension became too much, her mind would shatter, sending her into darkness.
The blackouts terrified her more than anything. She never knew how long they would last or what she might wake to. Her memories came back in jagged fragments, like shattered glass trying to reform a picture. Blood on her hands. Screams. Kyle’s face, contorted in rage—or was it fear? And now this sterile, suffocating room where even her own thoughts weren’t her own.
The door creaked open, and Rosie flinched, shrinking against the wall. A nurse stepped in, her expression neutral but not unkind. "Rosie? It’s time for your medication."
Rosie stared at her, wide-eyed, unable to speak. The nurse’s movements were deliberate and calm, but Rosie could feel the voice writhing inside her, hissing its disapproval.
"Don’t take it," it snarled, loud and venomous. "You don’t know what’s in it. They’re trying to poison you."
Rosie shook her head violently, clamping her hands over her ears. "No," she croaked, though it wasn’t clear if she was answering the nurse or the voice.
The nurse hesitated, her brow furrowing. "Rosie, it’s okay. This will help you feel better. I promise."
"Don’t believe her," the voice spat, its tone almost gleeful now. "She’s lying. They all are."
"Leave me alone," Rosie whimpered, her voice barely audible. She didn’t know who she was begging—herself, the voice, the nurse—but the words felt hollow and futile.
The nurse stepped closer, her expression softening. "Rosie, we’re here to help you. Just take a deep breath. One step at a time, okay?"
Rosie’s breathing hitched, shallow and uneven. Her hands trembled as she lowered them from her ears. The nurse’s words were gentle, almost soothing, but the voice didn’t quiet. It never quieted.
"Good girl," the nurse said, her smile encouraging as she handed Rosie the small paper cup with two pills inside.
Rosie stared at them, her hands shaking. She wanted to believe the nurse, to believe that these pills might silence the chaos inside her. But the voice laughed, a cruel, mocking sound that echoed in her skull.
"You think those little pills can fix you?" it jeered. "You’re broken. Irredeemable. And they know it."
Her fingers clenched around the cup, and tears welled in her eyes. She didn’t know what to believe anymore. She was trapped, not just in this hospital, but in her own mind. And the walls were closing in.
With a trembling hand, she lifted the cup to her lips, swallowing the pills. The nurse’s smile widened, but Rosie barely noticed. The voice was still there, coiled and waiting, whispering promises of destruction.
And as the medication began to pull her into a restless, medicated sleep, the voice faded—just a little. But Rosie knew it wasn’t gone. It was never gone. It was waiting for her in the dark.