Page 1 of Silencing Stolen Whispers (Kinsley Aspen #2)

Hannah Scriven

July

H annah's eyes burned as if someone had poured acid under her eyelids.

She blinked rapidly, hoping to ease the discomfort.

She had read the same paragraph three times without comprehension.

The words simply swam before her, merging into meaningless patterns.

Her vision worsened when she switched from staring at the textbook to the screen of her laptop.

“Screw it,” Hannah muttered as she pushed her chair back.

The four legs scraped the hardwood floor, the irritating sound bouncing off each shadowed corner of the small cabin.

She was one of those students who couldn’t study unless there was absolute silence.

Unfortunately, that meant every little creak and groan of the old wood was magnified. “I need a drink.”

Hannah stood up from the round table, the hard surface mostly covered by a pile of color-coded notes, highlighted case briefs, dog-eared textbooks, and her laptop.

An empty coffee mug, a half-eaten sandwich on a paper plate, and some torn Hostess wrappers occupied the remaining space.

She didn’t bother to pick up the trash. Instead, she stretched her arms overhead and leaned back just enough to crack her back. The relief was brief.

Three weeks.

Three weeks of self-imposed exile in this remote Fallbrook cabin, and what did she have to show for it?

Exhaustion.

Eye strain.

A growing certainty that she wasn't cut out for this after all.

According to the old-fashioned clock on the wall, it was just before eleven o’clock at night. The round face, slightly yellowed with age, mocked her. Another night bleeding into morning without proper rest.

She made her way to the kitchenette, where a half-empty bottle of Pinot Grigio waited in the refrigerator. According to her mother, wine was a concession to weakness.

Hannah couldn’t care less right now. It was a small act of rebellion against her strict study schedule, and she had earned a break.

She poured a generous amount of the golden liquid into a water glass and took a long sip. The cool wine slid down her throat, washing away the taste of failure that had been building all day. After draining the glass, she refilled it before placing the empty bottle on the counter.

Glass in hand, Hannah walked across the hardwood floor to the sliding screened door that led to a wooden deck. It wasn’t in the best shape, but it was sturdy enough that the owner wouldn’t need to replace it for a few more years.

The July night wrapped around her instantly with warm, thick air carrying the scent of pine and earth. It had rained earlier in the day, leaving behind a heavy humidity that almost soaked her clothes. Or had it rained yesterday? She had lost track of the days, and honestly, she didn’t care.

Hannah pulled out one of the two deck chairs, sinking into the faded cushion. The deck looked out onto a small backyard surrounded by a dense forest. The tall trees formed a jagged black line against the deep blue night sky.

Stars dotted the darkness above. Hundreds of them. The universe revealed itself with striking clarity in the countryside. But the peaceful night and wine offered no relief from the intrusion of unwanted memories.

When had her life fallen apart?

She couldn’t even pinpoint when every single relationship had soured, leaving her with the one thing she hated most in her life—living up to her mother’s expectations.

“I can't compete with your mother, Hannah. I never could.”

Three years with Nick Ryder ended in a fifteen-minute conversation outside the law library.

She gave herself just one night to grieve before she started studying casebooks.

It wasn’t like their other problems wouldn’t have come out eventually.

Besides, she wasn’t the only one responsible for their breakup.

Then came Jade, Hannah’s best friend throughout law school. She winced at the memory of their last interaction, the look of disgust on Jade's face when she found out what Hannah had done. Again, it was a two-way street. Jade didn’t get to take the high road when her own hands were dirty.

“I thought I knew you, Hannah,” Jade exclaimed, her voice low and controlled despite the anger in her eyes. “How could you do that? How could you ? —”

Hannah took another sip of wine, doing her best to erase the recollection. She wasn't ready to confront that specific shame. Not tonight.

But worst of all was Bailey.

Hannah’s twin, her mirror image, yet somehow her opposite in every other way.

While Hannah had dutifully followed their mother's path into law, Bailey had chosen freedom—working at a bar, pursuing photography, living in a cramped apartment with mismatched furniture and no five-year plan.

When she needed money, she went to their parents.

When her car broke down, she went to their parents.

And inevitably, Katherine and William Scriven relented and essentially gave Bailey a blank check. She had no understanding of what it meant to take responsibility for herself. No idea how much pressure was on her when every expectation rested on her shoulders.

Additionally, she made really poor choices that affected everyone around her.

“Heaven forbid, the golden child admit to being human,” Bailey said, the words sharp enough to draw blood. “You know what? I'm tired of being your emotional support animal whenever Mom pushes you too hard. I have problems, too, you know. So, figure things out yourself for once.”

That particular phone call had ended abruptly, leaving Hannah even more isolated than before.

She took another long sip of wine, nearly draining the glass. Her mother's voice, always present, always urging: “Excellence isn't optional, Hannah. It's expected.”

Katherine Scriven had clawed her way up from lower-class obscurity to owning her own corporate law firm. She expected no less from her daughter—the one who had chosen to follow in her footsteps.

The pressure was now physical—a tightness in her chest, a nauseous ball in her stomach, and an overwhelming weight on her shoulders.

Hannah stared into her nearly empty glass.

What would it be like to be Bailey for a day?

To simply not care what their mother thought?

To live without the constant drive to prove herself worthy of the Scriven name?

Hannah couldn’t stop her eyes from filling with tears. The least the tears could have done was lessen the sting from staring at her screen for so long, but they couldn’t even do that.She wiped the moisture from her cheeks with the back of her hand, angry at her own weakness.

Despair pressed in around her.

No boyfriend.

No best friend.

A twin sister who wanted nothing to do with her.

And parents who saw her merely as an extension of their legacy rather than as an individual.

Hannah finished what was left of her wine in one final swallow.

The alcohol now hummed in her veins. She ran a finger along the rim of the empty glass, listening to the faint, hollow hum it produced. It was a sound that mirrored the emptiness inside of her.

Until a sharp crack split the night.

Hannah stilled her motions, her gaze quickly lifting to the dark tree line. The piercing snap had been unnaturally loud against the backdrop of what sounded like a thousand crickets.

She carefully set her empty wine glass on the table, as if sudden movements could cause something worse than broken twigs.

Dot Whitaker, the owner of the cabin, had warned Hannah about the wildlife nearby—foxes, black bears, and coyotes.

Yet the darkness beyond the railing revealed nothing, not even the glow of green or yellow eyes.

Still, the noise must have come from an animal. There weren’t any neighbors for miles, and she was alone out here in the wilderness. The thought should have comforted her, but instead, it did the opposite.

The moonlight, which had been so beautiful moments before, now cast sinister shadows among the trees.

The wind had died down, leaving an unnatural stillness that made the hairs on Hannah's neck stand up.

She squinted once more, trying to see through the darkness, to give shape to the formless black that seemed to breathe just beyond her vision.

Remember, don't leave food out unless you want company,” Dot had advised after handing over the keys to the cabin. “And the trash goes in the bin with the lock. Bears aren't too common, but they're not unheard of either. Plus, those pesky raccoons can get into just about anything.

The recollection not only calmed her but also made her realize that she had forgotten to secure the lid after taking out the trash today.

It didn’t take her long to go back inside and slip into her flats.

She then retraced her steps, down the three wooden deck stairs, and around the side of the cabin.

The moonlight was bright enough to locate the lock, thread it through the eyehook, and secure the lid enough to prevent it from being opened.

A high-pitched whine near her ear signaled a mosquito's arrival. One landed on her neck, piercing her skin before she could swat it away. Another joined it, then a third, creating a small cloud around her head.

“Damn it,” Hannah muttered, slapping at her neck. Her hand came away with a smear of blood. Her own, mixed with the crushed insect. The wine had made her forget Dot's other warning—dusk brought out the bloodsuckers in July.

Hannah quickly retreated to the side of the house. She squirmed and swatted at the persistent insects as they followed her toward the sliding screened door. She was bitten again on her arm before she could open the door and find safety inside.

After enjoying the open air on the deck, the cabin's interior was overwhelmingly stifling.

Still, it was better than getting eaten alive by mosquitoes.

She had left her wine glass outside, but she would collect it in the morning.

She slipped her shoes off by the sliding door and decided to switch back to coffee.

It was going to be another long night.

The golden glow of the two lamps on either side of the couch provided enough light for the small space.

Barefoot, she walked across the wooden floor, already eyeing the sour cream and onion potato chips that Dot had dropped off with the rest of the groceries that morning.

The older woman had taken it upon herself to make sure Hannah survived on more than coffee during the four weeks she had rented the cabin.

That thought reminded Hannah that she had only one more week to study for the bar. With a grimace, she walked past the large stone fireplace that dominated the north wall of the cabin. Not that it had done her much good. It was really too bad she had rented the place in July.

Something had Hannah slowing her steps.

Something…wrong.

Her eyes were drawn to the four-piece iron fireplace toolset that stood in the corner. The brush, small shovel, and tongs were all in their rightful places. Oddly enough, the poker was conspicuously absent.

Had it always been missing?

A flutter of unease passed through her stomach.

She began to cautiously take in her surroundings, suddenly aware of just how far she was away from civilization and the isolation surrounding her. The previous shift in air had nothing to do with the lack of air flowing through the window screens, either.

Hannah wasn’t alone.

She had only just realized this explosive truth when she turned around and caught sight of a lone figure standing between her and the patio screen door. The missing fire poker gleamed dully, the pointed end angled slightly toward the floor.

The intruder was maybe six feet away from her.

“Y-you don’t want to do this,” Hannah whispered fearfully once the reality of her situation sank in. She was trapped with someone who had planned this moment. “Please, d-don’t do this.”

Silence.

The kind of silence that signified the decision had already been made.

Hannah understood exactly why the person wanted to end her life.

She slowly raised her hands in front of her, palms out—a useless gesture of supplication or defense, she wasn't sure which. There was a way out of this. There had to be a way out of this. A sob of panic rose in her chest.

“It’s all a big misunderstanding. I?—”

The figure moved with no hesitation.

No negotiation.

Just pure, silent violence.

A terrible, unquenchable intent that required no words to be spoken. Time seemed to fold into a single, eternal moment as the fire poker was swung with brutal force. Hannah observed every detail with unnatural clarity—the iron handle, the long shaft, the cruel point at the end.

She should have reached for something to defend herself.

She should have known there was no way out.

The commitment to brutality was staggering, and the impact came with a sickening sound. Metal meeting bone, a wet crack that echoed in the cabin's stillness. There was a thunderclap inside her skull, an explosion of pressure behind her eyes.

The force knocked her sideways, her body suddenly untethered from her will. She expected white-hot agony to flare where the poker had connected with her temple, yet her body seemed to have trouble recognizing the pain.

Her vision fractured with shards of light.

A second blow came, though she barely registered it through the haze of the first. Her legs buckled beneath her, no longer able to support her weight. She was falling, the room tilting around her at impossible angles.

Fleeting yet strange thoughts flashed through her disintegrating consciousness. Everything that had seemed so important no longer mattered.

The bar exam.

Nick.

Jade.

Bailey.

And Katherine. Mom. She was going to be so disappointed. All those years of pushing, guiding, and shaping Hannah into the ideal Scriven legacy. It all ended on a cabin floor.

All that potential, wasted.

All that investment, lost.

Hannah’s thoughts began to scatter like leaves in the wind, fragments of identity and memory swept away into nothingness.

One final synapse fired with a quick flash of Bailey's face, not angry but laughing, from some distant summer day when they were kids, before expectations, before life had gotten in the way.

Then that too dissolved into a dark, peaceful oblivion.