“Sister?”
Camille’s voice cracked—no, shattered. Like glass—sharp, desperate. It cut through the stale, heavy air in the room like it was something alive, choking. Her chest thudded hard, too loud, too fast. Her heart was going mad, thumping like it wanted out, and her palms—Jesus, her palms were so damn sweaty she almost dropped Ellie’s hand.
They were stuck on that couch, sagging under them like it knew how much weight they carried. California dusk bleeding through the busted blinds, shadows jagged and twitching across Ellie’s crayons scattered on the table. Bright little lies—fake hope. Broken dreams.
Sister? What the hell—what kind of sick joke—?
I don’t have a sister. I don’t—I’m not—I’m losing it.
Her stomach turned—twisted so bad she thought she might throw up. Backpack strap d
