Brielle’s POV
The car ride felt like a trap closing in.
I clutched the notebook with white-knuckled fingers, my eyes fixed on the photo on Gregory’s phone. My mother—strapped to a bed, a breathing tube in her throat, her eyes half-closed like someone drugged into silence. The image didn’t just shake me. It burned itself into the back of my skull, making it impossible to breathe, think, or feel anything except rage. Gregory’s jaw was clenched tight, and I could tell he was doing everything in his power not to throw the phone out the window. We didn’t speak. Words would’ve only made it worse. Instead, we let the silence roar louder than any scream.
When he finally pulled the car over by the curb, I barely noticed where we were. My thoughts were drowning in the memory of my mother’s voice,
