Lewis had shot her twice. That night she was dressed entirely in black, and all I could make out through the chaos was the blood — I never saw clearly where the bullets had landed. Then she had gone over the cliff's edge, straight down into the churning sea below. The drop alone should have been fatal. The water should have finished anything the bullets hadn't. Lewis had sent teams into those mountains afterward, combing every stretch of coastline they could reach.
They never found a body.
The thought of her — alive, out there somewhere, carrying that hatred like a second skin — sent a cold feeling crawling up my spine. She held me responsible for Silas's death. As if she hadn't been the one who came for me first. As if any of it had been my doing.
"Elena, Wisteria didn't have a normal childhood," Whitney said carefully, her voice soft in a way that wasn't quite sympathy and wasn't quite pity. "She was always... different."
"You two spent time together?"
