Page 57 of Bound By Crimson

Chapter Fifty-Seven

A Deeper Unraveling

The estate was silent, unchanged.

But panic clung to her like static.

You shouldn’t be up here. You weren’t meant to find this.

This wasn’t just a family secret. It felt older. Deeper.

Like she’d pulled the thread on something she didn’t even know was there—and now it was unraveling faster than she could catch it.

She turned quickly, forcing herself to reset the room.

The vanity. The stool. The cloth over the mirror.

She returned everything exactly as she’d found it.

She closed the chest containing the baby clothes and placed the shoes back on top.

The empty picture frame sat cold on the floor where she’d taken the photo.

She stared at it for a second too long.

Leave it, she told herself.

She tucked the photograph in the back of the journal with the birth certificate, turned off the attic light, and eased open the door.

The creak of the hinges scraped across her nerves.

The attic door shut behind her with a soft click, but it didn’t calm her. Not even close .

Lyric gripped the journal tighter against her chest, her other hand trembling as it hovered near the stair railing.

Her heart felt like it was echoing up the attic walls.

Down the narrow wooden staircase, she took each step slowly.

The old wood groaned beneath her. At eight months pregnant, every step was deliberate. She shifted her weight forward to protect her belly.

When she finally reached the bottom and opened the door to her bedroom, a gust of cool air rushed toward her—along with the sight she’d been dreading.

The wallpaper.

It lay in a crumpled heap across her bedroom floor, pale pink roses and vines twisted and torn where she’d peeled it back to reveal the hidden attic door.

The glue had given up completely.

The paper sagged and curled like it had been holding its breath for years—and now it had collapsed.

“Oh God,” she whispered.

She hurried to her bed, shoved the journal, the photograph, and the birth certificate beneath the mattress with frantic hands.

Then she turned back to the paper.

How am I going to fix this?

She could already feel her pulse climbing again. Her cheeks burned.

I’m going to get caught.

She couldn’t let Mrs. Thornwick find out she’d been up there.

Not yet.

Not until she understood what she’d stumbled into.

She needed water.

Something to reactivate the glue—at least enough to make it look intact.

She padded into the small bathroom off her bedroom, grabbed a sponge from beneath the sink, and filled a shallow bowl with lukewarm water.

Her hands shook as she carried it back in .

She carefully knelt first, trying to line up the torn pieces.

But nothing wanted to cooperate.

Her belly made it hard to lean the way she needed to.

She stood, grabbed the chair from her desk, and climbed up slowly, one hand braced against the wall.

Her body ached from the strain.

Soak. Press. Hold.

She worked in awkward silence, sweat beading along her hairline, trying not to lose her balance.

Her arms burned from the effort.

The sponge dripped down her wrist, soaking her sleeve.

She pressed the wallpaper to the wall, trying to align the pattern, to make it disappear again.

It stuck—sloppy, but it stuck.

Then she stepped back and realized one of the panels was upside down.

The roses bloomed downward, their stems trailing into the ceiling like they were trying to escape gravity.

“No,” she breathed.

But she didn’t dare pull it off again.

The paper would tear.

The glue would show.

It would look worse.

She angled the dresser just slightly in front of it—just enough to block the area from a passing glance.

Hopefully it would be enough.

It wasn’t perfect.

But then again, neither was she anymore.

Her back throbbed. Her feet ached.

And as she lowered herself into the bed, the familiar pinch of a cramp rolled across her abdomen.

She gritted her teeth and rubbed her belly in slow circles.

“Okay, okay,” she whispered to her child. “I know. I shouldn’t have done all that. I know.”

She lay there for several long minutes, willing the tightness to fade, trying to catch her breath.

Then her eyes landed on the mattress.

The journal .

The photograph.

The birth certificate.

She hadn’t imagined any of it.

She pulled the journal out slowly and ran her fingers over the cover.

The name inside stared up at her like a whisper:

Eden Celeste Thornwick

May the truth live longer than the lies.

Lyric exhaled.

Who are you?

And what do you have to do with Malachai?