Isla.
“She was calling me,” I said quietly. “She was afraid.”
“I know.” Mrs. Hawthorne’s voice was low. “But they got to her first.”
“They used her to send me a message. They knew I’d come for her.”
“They wanted you to.”
That sent a cold ripple down my spine. “Why?”
She didn’t answer. She was already gathering candles, herbs, stones—working. That was how she coped. Not me. I sat there, stuck. Angry. Lost.
“She was all I had left.”
“You still have me,” she said softly, not looking up.
I turned my face away and stared out the window. The trees were swaying, even though I couldn’t hear any wind. My skin prickled.
“I should’ve told her everything sooner,” I whispered.
“But you didn’t. And they used that. They’re not just hunting—they’re strategizing. That’s what makes this different
