Rose’s POV The ticking wasn’t high-tech. It wasn't a sleek digital countdown from a movie. It was a dull, mechanical click-clack that sounded like an old kitchen timer, and that made it so much worse. It made it feel real. Richard’s hands were slick with sweat as he fumbled with the wires taped to my sternum. He looked pathetic. His expensive suit was torn, his hair was matted with drywall dust, and he smelled like a man who hadn't slept in a week. He held a jagged shard of glass against my throat, but his grip was shaking so hard the edge kept catching on my skin, drawing tiny, stinging beads of red. "You did this, Rose," he whispered, his breath hot and smelling of rot. "I had a plan. We were going to be the best couple. But you... you had to be greedy. You had to go looking for a dead man's ghost. Why couldn't you just let your father stay in the ground?" I didn't cry. My eyes were too dry for that now. I just stared at a rust stain on the wall and felt a strange, heavy peace.
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