Isla’s POV
I didn’t think. I moved.
My body reacts before my brain can catch up, before fear has time to dress itself up as logic or bravery. One second I’m standing in the middle of that too-quiet house, phone pressed to my chest, the message still burning into my palm like it might leave a scar. Next, I’m walking—no, leaving—my feet carrying me back the way I came as if they’ve already memorized the exit.
The air feels heavier inside now. Thick. Charged. Like the walls are listening.
I don’t run. Running would mean panic.
Instead, I move fast, controlled, jaw clenched so tightly my teeth ache. I pass the staircase without looking up, refuse to glance down the hall, don’t give whatever—or whoever—sent that message the satisfaction of seeing me flinch.
My hand closes around the door
