Page 22 of Crown of the Mist

Not yet.

Lifting the boxes is almost worse than seeing them. Each one feels like a confession—how little she has, how much she's been hiding. I can hear the others moving around the studio behind me, their silence heavy with things none of us know how to say.

"You've got books," I try, aiming for light as I peer into one of the boxes. "That's good. Theo was worried we wouldn't have enough nerdy stuff in the house."

The joke falls flat, especially when I see what else is in the box. A worn teddy bear, its fur matted and one ear torn. I recognize it immediately—she's had it since we were kids. Since before her mom left. My throat gets tight as I realize this box probably holds everything she couldn't stand to lose.

Everything that survived her father.

"Where do you sleep?" Gray asks suddenly, his voice tight as he takes in the empty space. There's no bed, not even a mattress. Just that lumpy couch that looks about as comfortable as concrete.

Bree wraps her arms around herself. "The couch folds out," she mumbles, but we all hear what she's not saying. That ancient thing probably hasn't folded out properly in years.

I move to the closet—the only other storage space in the tiny studio—and my heart sinks further. A few sets of scrubs hung neatly on wire hangers. Two regular outfits that I recognize because she's worn them so many times. A pair of pajamas folded on the shelf above. That's it. That's her whole wardrobe.

"The lease," Gray says, turning to Bree. His voice is carefully controlled, but I can see how white his knuckles are where he's gripping the closet door. "How much do you owe?"

She shakes her head. "I can handle it."

"Bree." His voice carries that edge we all know toowell. "How much?"

"Two months," she whispers, staring at the floor. "But I'll figure it out. I always do."

Always do. The words hit me like a freight train. How many times has she been in this situation? How many times has she had to "figure it out" while we were all busy with our lives, thinking she was fine just because she said she was?

"I've got it," I say, the words coming out before I can think about them. When she starts to protest, I hold up a hand. "Nope. Not negotiable. Consider it back rent for all the times you helped me pass calculus."

"Jace—"

"He's right," Theo cuts in smoothly. "Though I think chemistry was more my territory."

"You all helped," she says, her voice small. "You don't owe me anything."

"That's not how family works," Rhett says quietly, and something in his tone makes her finally look up.

I watch the tears well in her eyes before she blinks them back. She's trying so hard to hold it together, to keep those walls up, but they're crumbling. We can all see it.

"Hey," I say, crossing to her. I stop just short of touching her, remembering how she flinchessometimes. "Remember when we were kids, and you used to smuggle extra cookies to Gray because his dad never bought any?"

A ghost of a smile touches her lips. "You knew about that?"

"'Course we did. You weren't exactly subtle, short stack." The old nickname slips out naturally, and for a second, she looks so much like that little girl—the one who took care of all of us even when she had nothing—that my chest aches. "Let us return the favor. Please."

The mist—or whatever it was—moves again by the window, catching my eye. This time I'm sure I'm not imagining it. It curls around Bree's feet like a cat seeking attention, and I swear the air gets heavier, charged with… something.

But now isn't the time to bring that up. We've got other ghosts to deal with first.

14. Bree

The last box sits on the floor near the door, smaller than the others but heavier with meaning. My journal, photos, ticket stubs from concerts we went to together, silly notes passed in class, pressed daisies - every reminder of the family I've been pushing away. My hands tremble as I pick it up.

"I'll take this one," I say quickly, cutting through the quiet hum of the room. Rhett glances at me, brow furrowed. "It's small. I've got it."

He hesitates but doesn't argue. I slip out before anyone can question it, clutching the box like a shield as I hurry down the stairs. The stairwell's sour smell hardly registers - I just need to get this to the truck before they can ask what's in it.

I push through the door into the bright morning sun, blinking as my eyes adjust. Relief floods through me at the sight of Rhett's truck waitingin the lot.

"Well, well." The voice stops me cold. "Moving out so soon?"