Page 30 of Crown of the Mist

I really hope she likes that green blanket. The soft one that reminded me of her eyes when she actually lets herself smile.

The building looks different today, though not better. Paint peels from the concrete like oldscabs, and the front steps are cracked, weeds pushing through like stubborn memories. A cat watches me from a broken windowsill, its yellow eyes following my movement with too much interest.

My key ring feels heavy as I sort through it, finding the spare she'd given us years ago "for emergencies." The one we should have used sooner. Should have walked right in and carried her out of here the first time Phil looked at her wrong.

Focus, Langston. Get her stuff. Get out. Try not to commit assault if her landlord shows up.

The lock sticks, just like she said it would. Three jiggles to the left, one sharp turn right. The door groans open like it's warning me about what's inside.

The apartment feels even smaller, emptier somehow. Dust motes dance in the thin sunlight streaming through the window, making the space look almost ethereal—but not in a good way. More like a ghost of what a home should be.

"Jesus, Bree," I mutter, taking in the water stains on the ceiling, the patches of peeling wallpaper. "Why didn't you tell us?"

But I know why. The same reason she never told us about her father. About Phil. About any of it.

I set the empty Target bags by the door and move deeper into the space, cataloging everything with the same attention I usually save for house listings. The couch that's more springs than cushions. The coffee table with cigarette burns that definitely weren't from her. The kitchenette with—I swallow hard—one plate, one mug, like she couldn't even imagine having someone over to share a meal. I open a cabinet, make that two mugs. I can see why she’d never use that one.

I find an old journal peeking out from under the couch, I grab it, careful not to open it. She'd write in this journal for hours when we were kids, hunched over the pages like they could protect her from whatever waited at home. I'd try to make her laugh, tell increasingly ridiculous jokes just to see her smile. Sometimes it even worked.

The mist drifts at my feet, thinner here than at our house but still present.

Movement catches my eye—someone passing by the window. My hands clench automatically, but it's just the cat from earlier, prowling along the ledge. Still, the reminder that Phil could show up any minute gets me moving.

I start with the closet, pulling out the few pieces of clothing she owns. Each item feels like an accusation.You should have known. Should have seen.Her uniform from the nursing home. Two pairs of jeans worn soft at the knees. A few brasand panties that she’s probably had since high school.

"This is why you never let us visit," I say to the empty room, carefully folding each piece. "Why you always met us somewhere else."

A noise in the hallway makes me freeze, but it's just someone's TV through the thin walls. I force myself to breathe, to focus on the task.Get her stuff. Get out. Try not to think about how she lived here alone, scared, while we were all comfortable in our big house with our family dinners and movie nights.

The bathroom's worse. One threadbare towel. Travel-size toiletries like she couldn't afford the regular ones. A crack in the mirror that spiderwebs across the glass, distorting everything it reflects.

I'm taping up the second box on the bathroom floor when I hear it—heavy footsteps in the hall, the distinctive shuffle-stumble of someone who's been drinking. My whole body goes still, listening. The footsteps pause outside her door.

The mist swirls faster around my ankles, agitated. Warning.

Come on, Phil. Give me a reason.

A glint catches my eye as I'm checking the medicine cabinet—something metallic behindthe mirror's cracked frame. At first I think it's just wiring, but then I notice the lens.

My stomach drops as I reach up, fingers finding the tiny camera expertly hidden in the frame. The kind you wouldn't notice unless you were looking for it. Unless you knew what to look for.

For a moment, I just stare at it, my whole body going cold then hot. The implications hit me like a physical blow—how long it's been here, what it's recorded, whether there are others. Phil's leering face flashes through my mind, his words about watching her.

Bile rises in my throat.

My hand shakes as I pull out my phone, forcing myself to document the camera's placement before carefully removing it. Evidence. We'll need evidence. But God, what I really want to do is find Phil and—

Those heavy footsteps pause outside the door again. A key scrapes in the lock.

The mist churns around my feet, dark and agitated. Waiting.

Every protective instinct I have screams for blood, but Theo's warning echoes in my head.Be careful.We need to handle this right. For Bree.

I slip the camera into my pocket, evidence of one more violation she never deserved. One moresecret I'll have to tell the others, knowing it will break her heart when she finds out.

Focus, Langston. Get her stuff out first. Justice comes later.

I move silently toward the bathroom door, my reflection fractured in the broken mirror. The front door creaks open.