Lara
My sister doesn’t utter a word. She just crooks her finger at me and turns, expecting me to follow. And stupidly, I do.
She leads me through the corridor, into the emergency stairwell—away from prying eyes, where the walls echo too easily, and secrets cling like mildew. Then suddenly—bam.
My back slams against the cold, dull-grey wall with a force that knocks the breath out of me. Dust rains from the ceiling, stirred by the impact. I cough, choking, each gasp scraping my throat like sandpaper. My body spasms, suspended between a groan and a gasp.
“Eight years gone, and you’re still a pest,” she growls. Her face is so close I can feel the heat of her breath, can smell the venom in her words—like rot laced with roses.
“Eight years, and you still don’t know how to act like an older
