(Hailey Miller POV)
The protective custody cell felt like a promise and a threat at once—an ugly little reliquary meant to keep me safe from the world while quietly insisting I belonged nowhere. Pale green paint peeled at one corner, as if the color itself were trying to flake away the idea of security. Time here had the texture of wet wool: heavy, slow, and impossible to shake. The guard’s footsteps in the corridor were a metronome; the fluorescent lights hummed a thin, mechanical lullaby that made everything look washed-out and false.
Parker had told me it worked. Liam was under control. The system was doing its job. But you can repeat a lie to steady yourself and it will still be a lie. There’s a small, animal certainty that lives in your gut when something—someone—can walk through do
