It's been five years since the sudden disappearance of Cora Cadigan's mother. Five years since the case was closed before it even began.
In the final summer before the end of high school, Cora knows it's her last opportunity to find the answers she...
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Rhys
"Fuck."
I'm awoken by a throbbing pain emanating from my head. It sears from the back all the way to the front, flickering constantly.
I sit up, slightly delirious. I'm in bed, under the covers. My blinds are drawn closed, the smallest amount of light creeping through the crack and spreading out along my floor. Other than that, I'm in total darkness. My ceiling fan is on its highest setting, walking around my room like it's ready to fly the fuck off.
Libby.
It comes back to me suddenly, momentarily taking my breath away. I clench my teeth, hands fisted into the sheets to stop the sharp shot of pain blooming through my chest.
To think I had constantly stared at the man who had killed her. Who had left her on the side of the fucking road to die. And for what? What's his motive? Mum has given him everything. A secure job, a new start in New River. Just so he could go and fucking kill my sister?
I feel the bile rising in my stomach. I throw off the sweat-soaked sheets, hitting my shoulder against the doorframe as I walk into my bathroom. I barely make it in time before my arms collapse around the toilet bowl, emptying the contents of my stomach.
I don't think it will ever matter how much time passes. Her death is just as fresh as it had been three years ago. I'm reliving it all over again. That pain, that flash of emotion that I tried to suppress, the need to forget. I clench my hands against the bowl, spitting out the disgusting taste left behind.
I hear my bedroom door squeak open and I fumble to stand up. I make it to my basin, blasting cold water across my face. I do it several more times until I'm panting for air, meeting Max's pained expression through the mirror.
He'd always been more inclined to show his emotions. More so than me. He openly cried at Libby's funeral, whilst I stood there, cold as stone, willing myself to hold it together.
"Hey," he whispers, voice cracking. I can tell he hadn't slept. The deeply carved bags under his eyes say as much.
I nod at him; the motion causing the sick feeling in my stomach to rise again. I reach for the face washer hanging on the towel rack by the mirror, drying my face.
