The Danger is In
1165 Words
Next Morning — 10:00 AM (Early, for Liv)
Liv yawned her way out of the bedroom like she’d survived a war. Her mom was folding laundry in the living room.
Liv walked over and wrapped her arms around her from behind.
“Morning, my favorite woman who hasn’t murdered me in my sleep yet.”
Her mom laughed softly. “Yet?”
“I know I’m a lot to handle,” Liv said with a grin, “but I like to believe I’m charming.”
“You’re exhausting,” her mom replied, kissing her on the forehead.
Liv peeled away and went to freshen up. Twenty minutes later, coffee in hand, she peeked into Yara’s room.
Still asleep. Blanket over her head. Not a stir.
“She’s working too hard,” Liv muttered. “Let the zombie rest.”
Back in the kitchen, Liv sat down at the table and pointed a dramatic finger at her mom.
“Your ideal daughter is sleeping in. Look who’s lazy now. What do you have to say for yourself, Miss ‘Liv’s the unorganized one’?”
Her mom rolled her eyes. “Maybe she needs rest. Not everyone runs on mystery novels and caffeine.”
“Excuse you,” Liv said, sipping her coffee. “It’s called being high-functioning and slightly unhinged. It’s a lifestyle.”
Her mom just smiled, shaking her head.
Liv? She was already planning her next move.
The milk, the walkers, the girl who looked just like her—
It wasn’t random.
And she was done waiting.
She opened her notebook and flipped to Alicia’s file.
A new question:
Was Alicia the only girl who disappeared? Or the only one who got noticed?
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown number. No caller ID. No message.
She stared at the screen. The buzzing stopped.
Then another sound.
Knock.
Just once.
From the hallway.
She walked to the door quietly, heart steady.
Checked the peephole.
Nothing.
But something was there.
Folded. Slipped under the door.
A third newspaper.
And scribbled across the top margin, in the same jagged handwriting:
“You’re closer than you think.”
Just then, her mom’s voice rang out from the kitchen.
“Liv, can you go wake up Yara? She’s gonna miss breakfast again.”
“On it!” Liv called back.
She walked into Yara’s room, already preparing her usual wake-up routine.
“Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty! Your kingdom of unwashed laundry awaits!”
Nothing.
She clapped loudly. Tried again. “Come on, ideal daughter. If I gotta deal with reality, so do you.”
Still nothing.
Liv frowned. Walked over, yanked the blanket off with dramatic flair, and gave her sister a nudge.
“Yara. Seriously.”
She pushed her shoulder. No reaction.
She leaned in, now uneasy.
“Yara?”
Liv’s breath caught.
She pressed her fingers to Yara’s neck.
No pulse.
Her heart dropped into her stomach.
“MOM!” she screamed.
Footsteps. Panic.
Her mom rushed in, took one look and dropped to her knees.
“No. No, no—Yara—please.”
She checked the same spot. Her face drained of all color.
Liv was already on the phone.
“Ambulance. Thirteenth floor. She’s not responding. Please hurry.”
The ambulance arrived in three minutes — sirens cutting through the sky, doors flying open.
They carried Yara out on a stretcher. Liv climbed in beside her, gripping the edge of the metal rails like they were lifelines.
Her mom sat on the opposite side, hands shaking, whispering prayers.
One paramedic checked vitals. Then another.
A third leaned closer, eyes grim.
He didn’t speak loudly.
He just said, “She’s gone.”
The words didn’t land. Not immediately.
Liv blinked. Once.
Twice.
And then everything… disconnected.
She stopped breathing. Not from panic. From silence. Like her brain flipped a switch and said: not now.
No tears. No thoughts. Just stillness. Her body frozen in the back of a speeding ambulance, a ghost sitting beside the living.
---
An hour later.
The apartment felt too big. Floor 13, too quiet.
Liv sat on the floor next to her mom, who was sobbing, crumpled like cloth.
Liv didn’t cry.
She couldn’t.
She wrapped her arms around her mom and whispered, “She didn’t feel pain. I promise.”
Her mom clung tighter.
Liv’s own chest was hollow. Like the grief went in and found no room to land.
---
The funeral came fast. Quiet. No big crowd. Just pain and silence and people who didn’t know what to say.
When it ended, and everyone returned to the building, the apartment was a little colder.
And Liv? She was already scanning the walls.
Waiting.
Because something wasn’t finished.
And Yara didn’t just die.
She sat on her bed, hoodie pulled tight, watching the wall like it might flinch.
Her notes were spread across her desk, along with the latest newspaper that had been slipped under their door.
You’re closer than you think.
It wasn’t a metaphor.
It was a warning.
She stood, crossed to her desk, and flipped open her notebook.
New section: Yara’s Case
No prior health issues
Found unresponsive in bed
Cold fingertips, but no trauma
Previous night: no unusual activity… except
Liv’s phone buzzed from unknown number
Lift opened at 1:33 AM
Another newspaper appeared
Postmortem pending
Theory: Yara didn’t die naturally
She stared at that last sentence until her pen bled through the page.
> “Bodies can lie,” she whispered. “But the truth doesn’t.”
---
That night, she didn’t sleep.
She watched the hallway through the peephole.
She set a coffee timer for 1:25 AM.
And she waited.
---
3:00 AM
Liv sat still, eyes locked on the front door. Blank. Cold. Her thoughts circling the same image over and over: Yara, motionless in bed.
A sudden soft shuffle. A sound too familiar.
Paper sliding.
She shot up — faster than thought — and sprinted to the door. One hand gripped a cutter. The other, a hammer.
She flung the door open.
Nothing.
The hallway was silent. Still.
Just the newspaper, folded perfectly, sitting at the threshold.
She snatched it up and read the message scrawled in jagged black marker:
"Aw, did Yara like the milk?"
Her chest cracked.
The cutter dropped from her hand.
The hammer wobbled.
And for the first time, Liv broke.
Tears spilled without warning. Ugly. Raw. Pain she’d locked away behind caffeine and notebooks came flooding out.
She sank to her knees, clutching the paper, her breath collapsing into sobs.
She had kept the milk under her desk.
Yara had taken a sip. Just one.
It was Liv’s case. Liv’s evidence. Liv’s mistake.
She screamed — wordless, helpless.
Then stood. Wiped her face with her sleeve.
And with both hands trembling, she raised the hammer — and smashed one of the glass milk bottles into pieces.
Shards scattered. Cold white liquid bleeding into the floor.
“Not again,” she whispered.
“Never again.”
- Writer
