Page 28 of Mourning Wings
“Icouldn’t stop,”Iwhisper through my sobs. “I…couldn’t…stop.”
Ronniecrouches beside me, her face pale, still bruised from the fight.Shedoesn’t say anything; she just wraps her arms around me, pulling me close.Icling to her, my body shaking uncontrollably.
“Hey,”Ronniewhispers, holding me tighter. “Youdid what you had to.Yousaved us.Don’tthink about it right now, okay?Justbreathe.”
Aftera few moments,Ifinally gather myself, wiping the blood and tears from my face.Myheart is still racing, butIpush down the nausea rising in my throat.Ican’t fall apart now.
Ronniehelps me to my feet. “Weneed to keep moving before someone else finds us,” she says.
Inod and let her lead me away from the crime scene.Eachstep feels heavier than the last, butIforce myself to keep walking.Ronnie’space is quick, her eyes scanning our surroundings.Mymind is still spinning, but she breaks the silence.
“So, tell me more aboutCamila,” she asks, glancing back at me.She’strying to distract me.
Iswallow hard, trying to focus on the question.Camila.Ihave to think aboutCamila, not the blood, not the manIjust killed.
“We—”Iclear my throat, swallowing hard. “Shewas my first love.”
Ronnietenses.It’ssubtle at first, the way her shoulders stiffen as she walks, her fingers twitching slightly at her sides, but then it deepens.Herjaw tightens.Ipause mid-sentence, watching her carefully.Thisisn’t jealousy—Imean, we just met.
ButRonniedoesn’t acknowledge the change in her demeanor.
Wereach the end of the hallway, and we approach a large staircase leading to another floor.Thesteps look freshly polished, the banister smooth and gleaming.It’sa stark contrast to the nightmare below.Thispart of the mansion looks like it’s lived in, the doors no longer worn and old.
Ronnieglances around, ensuring no one’s in sight. “Let’sgo.”
Weascend the staircase quietly whenIsuddenly rememberIsabel.
Ifumble for my phone, pulling it out of my pocket, my fingers shaking.Icheck for messages—nothing.Myheart sinks:Isabelhasn’t texted me.Nokeyword.Nosign.Mystomach twists with panic.MaybeRonniewas wrong.Maybesheisin danger.
“What’swrong?”Veronicaasks.
“Isabelhasn’t messaged me.Yousaid they wouldn’t hurt her, but what if she’s phone-less?Whatif shecan’ttext me?”
Ronniepauses, turning to face me, her expression softening. “Itold you; those guys aren’t going to hurt her.They’reprobably just keeping her busy.ButIget it—you’re scared.Aftereverything, it makes sense.”
Ibite my lip, torn.Partof me wants to run and findIsabel, to make sure she’s safe.Butafter what we’ve just been through, after whatIdid…Idon’t know ifIcan do this withoutRonnie.Idon’twantto do this without her.
Ishove my phone back in my pocket and take a deep breath.She’sfine,Itry to convince myself.
Wecontinue going upstairs, and when we reach the top,Ronniepicks a door at random, slowly pushing it open.
Whatwe see freezes us in place.
It’sa bedroom, neutral but dark.Thewalls are a deep, muted gray, with subtle pops of color here and there.Avase of dried flowers sits on a dresser, their petals faded and brittle.Butwhatreally catches my eye are the butterflies.Imagesof them cover the walls, intricately drawn, their delicate wings captured mid-flight.They’reeverywhere, on every surface, every wall.Thesight of them sends a chill through me.
Mountedright above the bed is a wooden sign, the carved letters spelling out a name in delicate cursive:Camila.
Alump forms in my throat thatIcan’t swallow down.Ifeel it like a punch to the gut.Thiswas where she slept, where she lived, where she dreamed.
Ronniesteps inside, her eyes narrowing as she takes it all in. “Thisis her room,” she says quietly, like she’s speaking the thought aloud to confirm it for herself.
Idon’t answer her.Ican’t.Ifeel frozen, my gaze glued to the name above the bed, my mind reeling.Camilais everywhere in this room—the butterflies, the subtle darkness, the quiet way it all feels like a part of her.It’salmost like she’s still here, haunting the space.
Istep further inside, my fingers brushing against the back of a chair by the bed.Thewood is cool beneath my skin, andIimagine her sitting there, brushing her hair, silent as ever.Theimage makes my chest tighten.
Ronnie’sjaw clenches as she takes in the room again. “I’vebeen here before.”
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