A knife is embedded in the wood.
Sleek. Polished. Intentional.
It gleams in the sunlight—and beneath it—photographs.
My stomach drops.
I step closer, my hand shaking as I pull the first one free. The blade has sliced cleanly through a photo of Whitney and me at the debutante ball, our smiles frozen in time.
But my face—my face is scratched out.
Violent, jagged strokes of red ink carve through me, bleeding across the image like a wound. Whitney’s side is untouched. Perfect.
I flip it over.
last one left
The words hit harder than the knife.
The photo slips from my fingers.
The second one trembles in my grip before I can even fully process it.
It’s me.
Sleeping.
I’m in bed beside Bennett, curled into my pillow, wearing the nightie I had on last night.
Last night.
The angle is wrong—too high, too close. Like whoever took it was standing in the room.
Or watching through the window.
A drone.
My pulse spikes.
Someone was here.
In my house.
In my room.
Watching me.
The knife. The photos. My ruined face.
This isn’t random.
It’s deliberate.
Personal.
A message.
I force myself to look at the knife again. The handle is engraved, delicate lettering etched into the metal:
