The afternoon light streams through the Rosenbergs' floor-to-ceiling windows as Hannah listens to Tommy read from his assigned novel, The Lightning Thief. His voice carries the confident cadence of a strong reader, though he occasionally stumbles on the larger Greek names.

"'Percy stared at the Minotaur's horn, wondering how he could have possibly killed the beast...'" Tommy reads fluently, fully absorbed in the story.

Hannah's attention drifts to movement outside. Through the window, she watches Nate help Amber into his truck—a gesture so practiced it looks choreographed. Amber looks flawless as always in her cream cashmere sweater, her makeup perfect, her smile calculated as she says something that makes Nate laugh. Nothing in her appearance betrays any hint of the morning's tension.

The truck's engine rumbles to life, and Hannah's heart begins to race. This is it. The opportunity they've been waiting for. After a week of dead ends—the Brookswood game where they couldn't find Megan Carter or Victoria Reynolds despite searching the entire visiting section, the confrontation with Coach Martinez that ended in threats rather than answers—finally, a chance.

"Tommy," she says, keeping her voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins. "Why don't you take a break? You've been reading for almost an hour."

His face lights up. "Can I play Fortnite? Nate showed me some new tricks last time he was here."

"One hour," she agrees, pushing away memories of Halloween night. "Remember what your mom said about screen time."

She watches him settle into his gaming routine, making sure he's thoroughly engrossed before slipping upstairs. Each step feels like a betrayal of trust, but she thinks about Lisa's face when she talks about Hampton Beach, about their frustrating search for the other girls who seemed to have vanished into thin air. About Rachel Martinez, who they'd tried to contact through social media only to find all her accounts deactivated.

Amber's bedroom door opens silently, revealing a space that looks like it was decorated by someone who read about teenage girls in magazines but never actually met one. Everything is precisely coordinated in shades of cream and blush pink, from the silk curtains to the tufted headboard. A chandelier that probably costs more than Hannah's car hangs from the ceiling, casting rainbow prisms across walls adorned with carefully framed fashion prints.

The room should feel feminine, delicate, but there's something almost clinical about its perfection. No random clutter, no signs of typical teenage messiness. Even the photos on her vanity—mostly of her and Nate at various social events—are arranged with geometric precision.

Hannah moves methodically, guilt warring with determination as she searches. The desk yields nothing but expensive stationery and perfectly organized school supplies. Under the bed is equally bare—just shopping bags from designer stores, their contents still wrapped in tissue paper.

Her eyes land on Nate's bag, the number 67 embroidered in gold thread. Her hands shake slightly as she unzips it, the familiar scent of him hitting her like a physical force—clean sweat and expensive cologne and something uniquely Nate that makes her dizzy. She finds herself pressing one of his t-shirts to her face before she can stop herself, breathing in deeply.

"Hannah?" Tommy's voice carries up the stairs. "The game crashed!"

"Coming!" she calls back, hastily shoving the shirt back into the bag. Her heart pounds as she makes one final sweep of the room.

The mattress. She hasn't checked the mattress.

Her fingers slide between the memory foam and the box spring, finding nothing at first. But then—there. Paper, crisp and official-feeling. She pulls the sheets free just as Tommy calls again.

"One minute!" Her voice cracks as she unfolds the papers, eyes scanning rapidly.

When she pulls the papers from between the mattress and box spring, the letterhead makes her breath catch: Riverside Psychiatric Associates.

The date is from two years ago, but the diagnosis jumps off the page in stark medical terminology: Bipolar Disorder Type II. The words blur together as she reads: "periods of hypomania... depressive episodes... recommend immediate therapeutic intervention... mood stabilizers..."

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

Hannah's hands shake as she photographs the documents. This is it—the ammunition they've been looking for. Evidence of instability that could destroy Amber's carefully constructed image. Combined with Lisa's story, it could bring down the entire house of cards.

But something stops her as she reads deeper into the medical notes. Phrases jump out: "patient exhibits extreme anxiety about maintaining perfect appearance and behavior" and "shows signs of severe emotional distress when unable to meet perceived expectations."

Her stomach churns with conflicting emotions. Because this isn't just ammunition—this is a teenage girl fighting battles inside her own mind while maintaining a perfect facade for the world. This is someone desperately trying to control her own chaos while controlling everyone around her.

"Hannah?" Tommy's voice carries up the stairs.

"Coming!" she calls back, hastily returning the papers to their hiding place. Her phone feels heavy in her pocket, weighted with photos that could shatter Amber's world. But now those photos feel less like weapons and more like wounds—evidence of pain rather than proof of weakness.

As she helps Tommy with his game, her mind races. Because she wanted justice, wanted to expose the corruption and cruelty of Riverside's elite. But is it justice if it comes at the cost of exposing someone's private medical struggles? Is bringing down the system worth destroying someone who might be as much a victim of that system as anyone else?

Some truths, she realizes, are more complicated than simple revenge would suggest. And sometimes understanding your enemy means questioning whether they were really your enemy at all.

Hannah watches Tommy expertly navigate his character through the game's virtual landscape, his fingers dancing across the controller with practiced ease. But her mind is elsewhere, turning over this new understanding of Amber Rosenberg like a complicated puzzle.

It makes sense now - all of it. The intense mood swings, the desperate need for control, the way she clings to Nate like he's her anchor in a storm. Hannah had always wondered what someone like Nate Brooks - with his easy charm and genuine kindness - saw in Riverside's ice princess. But maybe he wasn't staying out of obligation or social expectation. Maybe he saw past the carefully constructed walls to the girl fighting battles no one else could see.

Her phone buzzes with Lisa's text: "Did you find anything?"

Hannah's thumb hovers over the screen, the weight of her discovery pressing against her conscience. The truth sits in her camera roll like a loaded gun, waiting to be fired. But whose life would it destroy? Not just Amber's, but Tommy's too - this sweet kid who loves his sister despite her sharp edges, who doesn't deserve to see her torn apart by cruel gossip and whispered judgments.

"Nothing yet," she types back, the lie tasting bitter but necessary.

The game's cheerful music provides a stark contrast to her churning thoughts. Her hand drifts to her phone again, opening her camera roll. The clinical language stares back at her: "Patient exhibits signs of severe emotional distress..." She closes the photos quickly, feeling like a voyeur into someone else's private pain.

Bile rises in her throat as her mind suddenly shifts to Halloween night - to Jake's weight pinning her down, his hands insistent and unwanted. The memory makes her skin crawl. Because that's what real monsters look like, isn't it? Not troubled girls hiding medical records between their mattresses, but boys who think consent is optional and power is permission.

The names run through her mind like a dark litany: Lisa Chen, Rachel Martinez, Megan Carter, Victoria Reynolds, Emily Thorne. How many others were there? How many girls had Jake Woodland marked as prey before moving on to his next target? Each name represents a story buried under money and influence, a voice silenced by fear and shame. Three had transferred schools, Emily fleeing all the way to Seattle, while Rachel escaped to California. Only Lisa remained in Riverside, carrying her story like invisible scars.

"Hannah?" Tommy's voice pulls her back to the present. "Are you okay? You look kind of sick."

She forces a smile. "I'm fine, buddy. Just thinking about some stuff."

But she's not fine. Because somewhere in Riverside, Jake Woodland is probably planning his next conquest, protected by his family name and his father's lawyers and a system designed to keep people like him safe while girls like her stay quiet.

The real enemy isn't Amber Rosenberg with her hidden diagnosis and desperate need for control. It's the Jake Woodlands of the world who treat other people's bodies like territory to be conquered, other people's lives like games to be played.

But how do you fight someone like that? How do you get close enough to expose the truth without becoming another victim? The questions circle in Hannah's mind like hungry wolves, offering no easy answers.

Because some monsters wear letterman jackets and perfect smiles, and fighting them means risking everything. But staying silent? That's not an option anymore. Not when she knows what she knows, not when she's seen what she's seen.

The trick would be finding a way to bring Jake down without destroying everyone around him - including the girl whose medical records sit heavily in Hannah's phone, a secret she never wanted to know but now can't unknow.