Page 53 of The Beautiful Dead

Too pale.

Too still.

A shiver crawled down my spine as I wrapped my finger around her bony hand. It felt like ice infused her veins as they protruded from her skin. I squeezed, desperate for something—foranything.A flicker of movement. A sign of recognition.

“Mom?” My voice barely made it past my lips.

No response.

Nothing.

The machines beeped, steady and indifferent to the storm raging inside me. I forced down the lump in my throat and blinked against the burning sting behind my eyes. I wasn’t leaving here without answers. My gaze flickered to the IV bags hanging beside her bed.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The clear solution slid down the tubing, feeding directly into her veins. Something feltoff.I traced the tubes with my fingers, following them to the cannula taped into her elbow. My heart thudded harder as I squinted at the labels. They wereblank.

No drug name. No dosage.

A cold prickle ghosted down my neck. I turned to the chart at the foot of her bed, flipping it open. Every single page wasempty.Not a single note. No record of medications, vitals, or treatment.

Nothing.

I took a slow step back, ice settling into my veins. It was like someone had erased her. Someone had made her disappear on paper—as if she didn’t exist. As if she wasn’t meant to wake up.

A sharp breath shuddered through me like a rusty blade. This wasn’tjust neglect.This wasdeliberate.I inhaled slowly, pressing my shaking hands into fists hard enough to feel my nails break the skin. I had to keep it together. Had to think.

Brielle had all the answers, and I was going to get them. I glanced toward the dark window, my reflection barely visible in the glass. It was like I’d never been here either, a ghost visiting another ghost.

This wasn’t going to be easy. First, I needed to get into her office and see what was in Mom’s files. Then, I was heading to the house on the hill—the one that stood apart, pretending it didn’t belong. The shadows had a way of revealing as many secrets as they hid. I was done being kept in the dark. I pressed a kiss to my mom’s forehead, whispered a hollow goodbye, and slipped out before I could drown in the weight of what I was about to do.

The halls stretched out in front of me, too long, too empty—like something was waiting at the end. But I ignored the gnawing unease in my gut and made my way downstairs, heading straight for Brielle’s office.

The key was exactly where I’d hoped it would be—perched above the door frame, tucked into the wood. It was careless, the actions of someone who thought they were untouchable. That no one would ever come for them.

Brielle was wrong, I wasn’t going to stop until I got to the bottom of everything.

The lock turned easily, the door giving way with a slow, whispering groan. I slipped inside, shutting it behind me in case anyone walked down the hallway. The office smelled expensive—mahogany, leather, with the faintest trace of perfume still clinging to the air. It was a room built to intimidate, to make people feel small.

A perfectly curated illusion, but beneath the polish, something was rotten. I moved fast, keeping my steps light and my hands steady. I rifled through all the drawers of her desk, but nothing stood out. It was utilities, medication shipments, and patient acceptance logs.

Where was it? Where did she keep the things she didn’t want anyone to see? My gaze landed on the bookcase. Floor-to-ceiling, perfectly curated, its weight pressing against the room like a silent guardian. My fingers trailed along book spines and intricate ornaments, pushing, testing—until somethingclicked.

My breath hitched as a hidden panel slid open. The safe that hid behind it was cracked open. The latch barely caught, like someone had left in a hurry. A mistake I’d use to my advantage.

I pulled the door open, my pulse spiking as the contents spilled into view. Stacks of cash. A gun buried between hundreds of files.

I yanked one free, my fingers shaking as I flipped through the pages. There were medical records. Falsified death certificates. Dozens, if not hundreds of victims. Many of the names matched those that had been plastered across the city. Their families still searched for them.

My blood turned to ice when I pulled out another one with mom’s name on it, Angelica Cain.

The crest on the folder was one I’d seen many times since I arrived in Marlow Heights. It belonged to the DeMarcos. Peoplewhispered about them in the shadows, too afraid to say it in the light of day, like the boogie man would jump out and kill them.

Fear slithered up my spine; my skin grew cold as I flipped through the pages, my eyes refusing to believe what was printed in black and white.

Mom’s death certificate except—she was still breathing upstairs. The question—for how long—infected my mind like a cancer spreading out through every neuron.

The death certificate looked genuine, with the cause of death being natural causes. Signed, dated, and stamped by the coroner’s office. My fingers felt numb as I traced every letter and stared at it in disbelief. The world started spinning, the edges of my vision swallowed by darkness. My stomach revolted, and I bent over, retching.

---