They weren't just bullying me to shut me up. They were actively covering up evidence, and I had just accidentally given them the distraction they needed to hide it in the supply closet.
I stood up from the bed, my mind racing. I needed to get back into that school. I needed to see what Harper put in that closet. But I was suspended. If I was caught on campus, Thorne would have me arrested for trespassing.
Before I could figure out a plan, my phone vibrated in my hand, buzzing violently against my palm.
I looked down at the screen. My blood instantly ran cold, and the air completely vanished from my lungs.
It was a text message.
The name on the caller ID read: SARAH.
My sister’s phone had been missing since the day she was found at the bottom of the stairs. The police assumed it had been stolen by a passerby, or that she had lost it. It had been turned off for two weeks.
I stared at the glowing screen, my hands shaking so badly I almost dropped the phone.
The text read:
Stop looking, Maya. Or you’ll end up exactly like her.
CHAPTER 2
The glowing screen of my phone felt like a block of dry ice in my hand.
I stood paralyzed beside my bed, my eyes locked on the text message. The name SARAH hovered at the top of the screen in stark white letters. My fifteen-year-old sister was currently lying in a hospital bed, hooked up to a ventilator, entirely incapable of opening her eyes, let alone sending a text.
Whoever had her phone was the person who pushed her.
Panic hit me like a physical wave. I scrambled backward, tripping over my own rug, and slammed my back against the wall. I instinctively looked toward my bedroom window. The blinds were drawn, but the late afternoon sun cast thin, golden slices of light across the floor. I felt exposed. Hunted.
I practically dove for the phone, my thumbs trembling uncontrollably as I hit the call button on Sarah’s contact.
I held the phone to my ear. Ring. Ring. Ring.
My heart battered against my ribs. I prayed for someone to answer so I could hear their voice, so I could recognize the person who was tearing my family apart.
“Hey, this is Sarah! I’m probably studying, but leave a message!”
The bright, cheerful sound of my sister’s voicemail greeting—recorded months before the accident, when her biggest worry was getting an A in chemistry—broke something deep inside my chest. I choked on a sob, my knees buckling as I slid down the wall to sit on the floor. I hung up the phone and threw it onto the mattress.
I sat there for twenty minutes, hugging my knees to my chest, letting the tears track hot and fast down my face. My cheek where Chloe had slapped me throbbed with a rhythmic, pulsing heat. It was a physical reminder of the power they held over me.
A loud thud downstairs snapped me out of my spiral.
"Maya?" my mother’s voice called out from the entryway, followed by the heavy sigh of someone who had been on their feet for ten hours. "I'm home!"
I wiped my face frantically with the back of my sweatshirt, wincing as my knuckles brushed my bruised cheek. I stood up, took a deep breath, and walked out to the landing.
My mother, Elena, was standing in the small kitchen, dropping her heavy canvas work tote onto the counter. She looked exhausted. Her uniform from the diner was stained with coffee and grease, and the dark circles under her eyes looked like permanent bruises. On the counter beside her bag was a fresh stack of envelopes. Most of them were stamped in red: FINAL NOTICE.
"Hey, Mom," I said softly, keeping my left side turned slightly away from the hallway light.
"Hey, baby," she said, sorting mindlessly through the mail. "How was school? Did you talk to Mr. Davis about the makeup test?"
The lie formed in my throat like a lump of lead. I got suspended. Principal Thorne threatened to sue us. Chloe slapped me.
I looked at the stack of hospital bills on the counter. If I told her the truth, the stress would break her in half.
"It was fine," I lied smoothly, walking into the kitchen and turning toward the fridge to hide my face. "Talked to Mr. Davis. He's letting me take it next week."
"Good," she sighed, tearing open an envelope from St. Jude’s Medical Center. Her face fell instantly. She closed her eyes and gripped the edge of the counter, the paper crumpling slightly under her fingers.
"Mom?" I asked, stepping closer.
"It's just the new bill for the respiratory therapy," she said, her voice hollow and defeated. "Insurance is refusing to cover the extended ICU stay. They want to move her to a long-term care facility down in the county. It's... it's a warehouse, Maya. It's where people go when they're forgotten."
"They can't do that," I said, my blood boiling.
"They can do whatever they want when you don't have money," she whispered, turning to look at me. Her eyes finally landed on my face. She gasped, dropping the letter. She crossed the kitchen in two steps and gently touched my chin, turning my head into the light. "Maya. My god, what happened to your face? Who hit you?"
"Nobody, Mom," I lied frantically, pulling away. "I was in the health lab. I tripped over a chair and hit my face on the edge of the desk. I'm clumsy, you know that."
She stared at me, her maternal instinct clearly screaming that I was lying, but she was simply too tired to fight it. She touched my cheek one more time, incredibly gently.
"Be careful, Maya," she whispered. "I can't lose you, too. Go see her tonight, okay? She needs to hear your voice."
"I will," I promised.
Two hours later, the sterile smell of the hospital hit me like a physical blow. The ICU was quiet, save for the rhythmic, terrifying symphony of heart monitors and ventilators.
I walked into Room 314. Sarah looked so small in the center of the mechanical chaos. Her head was wrapped in white bandages. The rhythmic hiss-click of the machine breathing for her was the only sound in the room.