“For what it’s worth,” he says carefully, “nothing bad happened.”
I don’t look at him. “Good.”
He leaves.
I wait until I hear his bedroom door close.
Then I close and lock mine.
My hands are steady as I cross the room and sit on the edge of the bed. I don’t touch the sheets or the comforter. I don’t need to.
I already know who did this.
I pull my phone from my pocket and open the camera feed, scrolling back to earlier today.
At first, all I see is my empty room.
But then I stop when the doorknob turns.
My breath hitches.
And there she is.
Ivy enters my room.
Then she sits on my bed.
I watch her nudge my discarded shirt with her foot.
She pauses.
Then—deliberately—she turns the sleeve so it lies flat instead of twisted.
She wants me to know she was here.
My chest goes tight.
Ivy lies back on my bed like she belongs there—rolling, stretching, and tangling herself in my sheets like they were made for her. She presses her face into my pillow, breathes me in.
I scrub a hand over my face and keep watching until she’s gone.
My bedroom door opens. Even though he didn’t step inside, I know Drew saw her.
And likely agreed not to tell me.
I watch it again, studying every movement.
And when the screen finally goes dark, one thought settles in with terrifying clarity: she wanted me to know she was here.
And I have.
A smile curls my lips.
She wanted me to know she was here.
Game on, Ivy.
It’s my turn to play.
