Chapter 63

The ceiling has never been more interesting.

I lie on my back, eyes wide open, counting every tiny crack in the plaster, every uneven spot in the paint. Anything to distract from the words echoing in my mind.

"Alex wasn't drunk that night. It was all played out."

Michael's voice, smug and deliberate, loops like a cursed melody I can't shut off. My body is exhausted, my eyes sting from lack of sleep, but my mind refuses to rest.

Because if Michael is telling the truth… if Alex wasn't drunk… then what the hell actually happened that night?

I turn onto my side, gripping the pillow like it might stop my thoughts from spiraling. It doesn't.

I've replayed that night a thousand times in my head. I remember the way Alex looked at me, the way he touched me, the way he whispered my name like it meant something. But now… now my mind twists those memories into something darker.