ASHTON
Skylar has had her bathroom door locked for over four hours, and in all that time, I've heard only the faint sounds of running water, the occasional shuffle of feet, and now, the rattling of cabinet doors that makes my pulse spike with fear.
"Skylar, please," I say again, my voice hoarse from repetition. "Talk to me." As usual, I get no response in return.
I sit on the floor with my back against the wall. My head is bent and my hands are gripping my knees like I'm trying to keep myself from breaking the damn door down. The apartment still looks like hell: furniture overturned, glass shattered, the smell of blood faint but lingering. Every second in here feels like being trapped inside her trauma.
I've been through ugly things before, but this—this is different. This is my little sister.
"I'm sorry, okay?" I whisper. "For everything. For being a shitty big brother. For not being there when you needed me. I just need you to open the door."
