Chloe was still acting perfectly normal with me, laughing at the same jokes and leaning into our old rhythms, but I couldn't shake the feeling. It was like a splinter under my skin—tiny and impossible to ignore. I kept watching her, looking for a slip-up, a glance at her phone that lasted too long, or a change of expression in her eyes.
How do I even go about this? How do I accuse my best friend of conspiring with her vindictive, soul-crushing mother? It felt like a trap either way. On one hand, confronting her meant I might lose the only real friend I had left, even if she was completely innocent. But on the other hand, remaining silent meant sitting back while my family was potentially put at risk.
It was a choice between being labeled as paranoid or being the one who saved our lives.
