M.W.M.
My initials.
Elegant.
Intimate.
Wrong.
I scan the street, searching for movement, for anyone watching—but everything looks normal. Too normal.
The quiet presses in.
I retreat inside and lock the door.
The photos land on the kitchen counter with a sharp slap as I start pacing, my thoughts spiraling faster, darker.
The debutante photo burns.
That night—the beginning of everything. A world of wealth and power dressed up as perfection, hiding something rotten underneath.
Whoever left this knows that.
Knows what that night means.
And the other photo—that’s something else entirely.
It’s violation.
Control.
Whoever did this was close.
Too close.
I stare at the knife again.
This isn’t Phillip.
It doesn’t feel like him.
He’s calculated.
This is something messier.
Obsessive.
I pick up the photo again, my gaze lingering on Whitney’s untouched face.
Grief and rage twist together in my chest.
Someone is telling me something.
But what?
That they know?
That they blame me?
