Christopher
Elizabeth looks even paler now.
Her dark hair fans out against the blood-stained rug, her face motionless, her body eerily still.
My eyes keep darting to her neck, where faint bruises—the unmistakable imprint of my hands—are beginning to form. I can feel my pulse pounding in my ears, deafening me.
How did it come to this?
“Explain, Christopher.” My mother’s sharp voice cuts through the chaos in my mind.
Celia stands with her arms crossed, her cold blue eyes fixed on me, demanding answers.
I open my mouth, but no words come out.
I swallow hard, my throat dry and scratchy.
“I... I came home,” I begin, my voice trembling. “We found her in the study.”
“We?” she repeats, raising an eyebrow.
“Celeste and I,” I admit, feeling a pang of guilt as I glance at the woman who’s c
