⸻ ❛𝐖𝐑𝐀𝐏 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐒 𝐀𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 𝐌𝐄 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝐈 𝐃𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐍 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐎𝐒!❜
Rory Hargrove is obsessed to uncover the truth behind Barbara Holland's disappearance, while facing her brother's enemy and buried secrets from...
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THE SCENT OF DISINFECTANT AND ALCOHOL WAS THE FIRST TO WELCOME HER LUNGS. When her eyelids slid open, revealing the world to her blue irises, they met the turquoise curtains cascading down the wall. Through the window, a gray sky loomed—somber, veiled, heavy.
She wanted to rub her eyes, to sharpen her vision, but her arm refused to move, as though her body were made of stone. Summoning the fragile energy that still trickled into her veins through the IV, she forced her arm to obey.
The sharp squeal of a gurney's wheels echoed down the corridor, clashing with the steady beep of the heart monitor—a cold, mechanical orchestra declaring that the girl was still alive.
At last, she managed to stretch, unlocking the stiffness from her bones, still lying in the hospital bed, the sheets brushing against her bare legs, the softness of the pillow pressing against her neck. She turned onto her side despite the knives of pain stabbing her muscles.
Her gaze landed gently—like honeybees alighting—on a bouquet of tulips, some a bruised purple, others a soft red, resting in a glass vase. Beside them, a small yellow post-it clung to the surface.
Aurora reached for it, fingers trembling, curiosity driving her. Her lips curved when she recognized the handwriting.
My love, I'm so glad you've woken up. I was here this morning, brushing your hair while you slept like a true Sleeping Beauty. I'm volunteering at Hawkins High. I'll explain everything later. Yours, Speed Racer.
Steve was alive. The thought filled her heart with peace. Yet her still-groggy mind recoiled, memory slicing through her calm—the reason for all that fear, all that desperation.
The girl's eyes widened, stress crashing back into her fragile chest. She flung the sheets aside and stumbled out of bed, so fast her weakened body nearly collapsed, dizziness reminding her she had been motionless for forty-eight hours.
She fled the room, barefoot in her thin hospital gown, storming down the endless corridor. She peeked desperately into every room, searching for a familiar face. Each empty glance tightened the noose of panic around her ribs.
She needed to see Max. Better to find her in a hospital bed than... in the morgue.
Her breath hitched, panic hammering her heart at an impossible pace—then froze. She swore she heard Lucas's voice, low, steady, reading aloud.
Rory spun, senses straining. Her chest thundered again when she pushed open the right door and stepped inside like a shadow.
The reading stopped. Lucas's face lifted, surprise flashing in his bruised features. In less than a heartbeat, he was on his feet, wrapping her in an embrace. Rory's pale face, lips parted, searched for answers, her gaze already fixed on the still figure in the bed—her sister, motionless, pale.
