"She wouldn't leave without her sketchbook," Savannah said, her voice sharper than she meant it to be.
Rhett didn't look at her. He stood at the edge of Camille's bedroom, his arms folded across his chest, jaw ticking with tension. Moonlight filtered through the tall arched window, casting fractured light over the pale sheets of the unmade bed. The silence between them clung like static, restless and too quiet to be innocent.
Savannah moved closer, her steps slow but deliberate as she crossed the threshold. The room smelled faintly of lilac and ash, like something lovely that had burned. On the desk, Camille's journal lay half-open, its spine cracked and bleeding ink. A streak of blood cut across the final page, smeared with the edge of a fingerprint. The last entry ended mid-sentence.
"She didn't run," Savannah said again, her voice steadier now. "She was taken."
