Page 93 of Fractured Devotion
Someone else came here tonight.
I back away slowly, my keys clenched between my fingers. I make it back to the car, start the engine, and drive. But not toward home. Just away.
Whatever’s happening at the clinic, whatever Harper may or may not be doing, whatever Alec’s suspicions are, it’s following me now. But watching doesn’t stop at the glass.
And silence isn’t clean.
It’s just the sound of something waiting to speak. Or just maybe it’s all in my head.
I don’t go back to my apartment right away. Instead, I drive aimlessly for another half hour, looping through empty neighborhoods and industrial backroads, trying to decide if what I saw was real. The glow, the footprint… either someone else was out there, or my mind is inventing threats faster than I can blink.
By the time I turn toward home, I’ve convinced myself of both. That it was something, and that it was nothing. That’s the problem now. I can’t even trust my instincts.
The apartment is cold when I step inside. I don’t bother with lights. I just take off my boots, drop the keys on the counter, and head straight for the kitchen. I pour a glass of water, but my hands shake too badly to lift it at first. I brace myself against the counter, steadying my breath.
Then it hits me.
The scent. It’s powdery, floral, and cheap.
My mother’s perfume.
It’s not the real bottle as she never wore perfume. But it’s the one from the dream. The scent that clung to blood and closet wood and silence. My breath hitches as I stand frozen, half expecting the closet door to creak open behind me.
I close my eyes, and I’m not in my apartment anymore.
I’m back in that room. It’s a small room with green carpeting and one window with a torn curtain. My knees are drawn to my chest in a closet stuffed with shoes and my mother’sold coat. And the door is cracked just enough for a sliver of hallway light to cut across the floor.
I hear it again—the low, wet sound of impact of a body slumping, and the high-pitched whimper of air leaving lungs. Her lungs.
Then comes the silence.
It’s not clean, not empty, but full of everything I can’t look at.
I don’t cry. Not then. Not now. I just grip the counter, my nails biting the laminate, and my heart pounding like it wants to claw its way out. I open my eyes again.
The kitchen is still dark, and the scent is gone, but the memory sticks, clings, and leaves something behind.
I grab my journal without thinking and flip to the last page.
And that’s when I see it.
A word:Celestia.
It’s not in my handwriting. It’s not even in my usual black ink. The words are written in red, and they’re curved and flourished. A style I don’t recognize.
I stare at it for a long time.
Because I don’t know if I wrote it.
And I don’t know what it means.
But it scares me more than the footprint. More than even Harper or Kade.
Because it means someone, or some part of me, is still inside, waiting.
And I don’t remember letting them in.
I sit with the journal for a long time, the word burning into my eyes like it’s been branded there.Celestia.It’s not a name I currently use, and not a name I’ve ever gone by for the longest time.
