Blood.
It wasn’t Tricia’s.
But it was still fresh, smeared across the tile from the shattered window and the bullet's brutal path through the piano.
She sat on the floor of the music room, shaken, her knees pulled up to her chest. Her ears rang. Her pulse thundered. Her body was whole, but her mind… her mind was fracturing.
That bullet was meant for her.
And this time, it wasn’t a warning.
It was a promise.
Christopher knelt beside her, his arms cradling her like something fragile, like he was afraid if he let go for even a second, she’d disappear.
“I should have moved you sooner,” he whispered against her hair. “I should’ve known they were getting closer.”
She didn’t respond.
Couldn’t.
The veil was gone. The fantasy broken.
She was a target.
A girl with a sealed past, a forgo
