“How’s he doing?” Lake asked, watching Max set his phone down with a sigh.Max dragged a hand through his damp hair. “Honestly? I don’t know. He’s a wreck. Everyone knows how obsessed he is with Monica, and now—no one even knows if she’s alive or dead. It’s really disheartening.”Lake’s eyes softened. “I hope she’s okay. Wherever she is.”Max nodded slowly. “Me too. But it’s hard to hold on to that hope when the odds keep shrinking. It’s been weeks. He’s taking it out on his staff—snapping, shutting people out. I don’t think he’s slept.”“That sounds like Spencer.”“I’m gonna shower and head over. Maybe I can get him to eat something.” Max stood and stretched, his shoulders tense.Lake nodded as Max disappeared into the bathroom. The sound of running water filled the quiet room.Thirty minutes later.“Max, I’m heading out,” Lake called, slipping on his bag and reaching for his keys.The bathroom door swung open. Max stepped out, towel slung low around his waist, skin still glistening
“No. No. Leave me alone.”Lake twisted on the bed, voice choked and barely audible.Max stirred. His eyes blinked open into the dim light of the room. He turned toward the sound, brows drawn.“Lake?”He reached out, hand gently brushing against Lake’s shoulder.“Hey. You’re dreaming again. Wake up.”Lake whimpered. His breathing hitched. Tears slipped silently down his cheek even before his eyes opened.Max sat up straighter, alarmed now. “Hey—hey, are you okay?”Lake blinked rapidly, trying to shake the nightmare. His voice came out hoarse. “Did I… wake you up again?”“Doesn’t matter.” Max reached over and tucked Lake’s hair behind his ear, hand lingering. “You were crying.”Lake tried to sit up but dropped his head back onto the pillow, staring up at the ceiling like he couldn’t quite breathe right.Max stayed still beside him.“You don’t have to tell me what it was about,” Max said quietly. “But you’re safe. You’re here. With me.”Lake gave a slow, shaky nod. “I know. It’s just… it
Monica sat rigid on the couch, her hands folded tightly in her lap. Indiana sat behind her, legs crossed, her fingers tapping gently on her knee. Dr. Beatrice glanced between them, then leaned forward just a little. “Before we begin, Monica,” she said kindly, “would you feel more comfortable if we spoke alone for a bit?” Indiana turned her head. “Is that necessary?” Dr. Beatrice smiled, not unkindly. “It can help patients open up more freely in the first session. Just a few minutes.” Indiana hesitated. “I’m fine,” Monica said flatly. Dr. Beatrice turned to her. “Are you sure?” Monica paused, then looked toward the door. “Yeah. Actually… I’d prefer it.” Indiana shifted in her seat. “I only brought you here because I care—” “I know,” Monica cut in softly. “But I just need a minute.” The room went quiet. Then Indiana stood. “Alright.” She adjusted her coat, gave Monica a final glance, and moved toward the door. “I’ll be right outside.” Monica didn’t reply. As the door click
Monica sat on the edge of the bed, still wrapped in a blanket. Her arms rested on her knees. Her fingers tapped against each other in a slow, restless rhythm. The night had ended hours ago, but her thoughts hadn’t. Indiana watched her from across the room, leaning against the wall. Her arms were folded. She hadn’t spoken yet. Monica looked up. “You’ve been staring for fifteen minutes.” “I’m worried,” Indiana said, finally stepping forward. “You haven’t eaten. You haven’t showered. You haven’t said a word all morning.” Monica didn’t answer. Indiana sat down beside her. “Do you remember what you said when I came into your room this morning?” Monica’s eyes dropped to her knees. “That I thought I was going to die.” “No,” Indiana said. “You said you didn’t feel real anymore.” Silence stretched between them. “You’re here,” Indiana said, voice steady. “You’re alive. But surviving something like that—what happened—it doesn’t go away on its own.” “I’m not broken,” Monica muttered. “
"How are you feeling?" Indiana asked gently as the doctor peeled the gauze away from Monica’s arm, inspecting the healing skin. Monica winced slightly but didn’t flinch. “Better,” she replied, voice quiet. The doctor gave a small nod and stepped back, jotting something on his clipboard before excusing himself. Indiana took the opportunity to sit beside Monica on the edge of the bed. "Thankfully, you look a lot better," Indiana said, brushing a loose strand of hair behind Monica’s ear. "But that doesn’t mean you are better." She leaned in, her voice soft. “My beautiful girl,” she whispered with a small, affectionate smile. Monica didn’t return it. Her expression stayed flat, eyes distant. “I’ve been asking you when I get to leave,” she said, her voice clipped. “But you keep dodging the question.” “I told you,” Indiana replied, smoothing down the edge of the blanket, “once you’re better, you can leave.” “But I am better,” Monica pressed, sitting up straighter. “I can walk. I can
“Stop saying there’s a chance she’s dead. Stop saying that, Leo.” Spencer’s voice broke across the room. Loud. Shaky. Fraying at the edges.He stood in the center of the space like he didn’t know what to do with his hands, his feet, or the weight sitting on his shoulders. His eyes were bloodshot. His shirt was wrinkled and hung unevenly on him. He hadn’t shaved. He hadn’t changed. He hadn’t slept. Not properly. Not since she went missing.Diane flinched when he suddenly turned and drove his fist into the wall. The impact echoed. A small dent formed in the plaster. Blood smeared near the edge where his knuckles split open.Leo took a cautious step forward. “I’m sorry.”“Don’t tell me you’re sorry,” Spencer snapped, still breathing heavily. “I don’t want apologies. I want her found.”Leo didn’t move. “We’ve covered everything. The entire forest perimeter. We found tracks. Footprints. Torn fabric from her shirt. There was a blood trail—but it disappeared near the ridge. It’s possible—”“