Chapter Eighty - The Letter And The Visit

Harper's footsteps echoed hollowly as she crossed the threshold into her room, the door clicking softly behind her. The space was now suffocating in its blandness—the cold white walls, the dull hum of fluorescent lights overhead, and the thin, scratchy blanket pulled tight over the narrow mattress. It was a place designed to erase individuality, and right now, Harper felt herself dissolving into the antiseptic emptiness.

From the small pink envelope her mother had handed her during their quick visit, Harper pulled it out. The familiar swirl of Aura's handwriting made her pause, but only for a moment. She didn't expect to feel anything. She didn't really want to.

She sank down onto the edge of the bed, fingers stiff and deliberate as they tore the envelope's seal. Unfolding the letter, she squinted as the words blurred slightly, the fluorescent light above catching on the creases in the paper.

Dear Harper,

The letter started simply. The handwriting was neat but uneven, like Aura had written it in a rush but wanted it to look perfect. Harper's eyes traced the words methodically, as if she were reading a textbook, not a message from her little sister's heart.

I really miss you.

Harper's lips twitched—an involuntary twitch, barely there, but the expression never grew into anything warmer. The numbness that had settled over her these past weeks was a thick fog that dulled every sharp edge of emotion.

I miss the way you used to write to me all the time, the little notes and messages that made the distance seem smaller. Lately, it feels like you're slipping away, and I'm scared.

The paper trembled slightly between Harper's fingers, but the words felt distant, like they belonged to someone else's life. No tears came. No surge of longing or guilt. Just an empty hollowness inside that swallowed everything whole.

I hope Mom didn't read this letter before she gave it to you. If she knew what I found, she'd probably flip out.

Her jaw tightened. The sharp edge of grumpiness she usually wore like armor was still there, but this numbness was different—heavier, deeper. Bipolar was a battle she fought daily, the wild ups and crushing lows often blurring into something harder to recognize. Today, she wasn't angry or manic or sad. She was empty. Dead inside, like a battery drained of power.

I found the gun. Under your bed. It was terrifying, Harper. I didn't want to believe it was yours. I even wondered if you could have done something to Grandma. But then Camille told me and Jackson you were with her that night, and I felt a small relief—but maybe there's more to this story that I don't understand.

Harper's eyes flickered away from the page, settling on the scuffed floor tiles. The weight of those words should have twisted her stomach or clenched her heart—but it didn't. Her hands, which had once been so full of restless energy, lay still in her lap. The numbness was a wall she couldn't climb over.

I don't know what to think sometimes, but I want to believe you. I want to believe in us, even when it's hard. I really hope you wasn't using that gun to hurt yourself.

Please write back when you can. You don't have to say everything—but just something. I'm here. You know I love you.

Love, Aura.

The last word hovered in the air, soft and vulnerable, like a fragile bird perched on a bare branch. Harper's breath caught faintly, but there was no rush of emotion behind it. Only the cold, mechanical sensation of breath moving in and out of her lungs.

Without warning, the letter shredded between her fingers. The paper tore unevenly, the sound loud in the quiet room, jagged edges slicing through the stillness. Her movements were sharp, angry, and desperate—not from a burst of fury, but a bitter frustration she couldn't name.

The crumpled strips of paper clutched tightly in her fist, Harper rose and took a few slow steps toward the small wastebasket in the corner. Her footsteps were heavy, dragging, weighted with the dull ache of fatigue and something deeper—something she wouldn't let herself feel.

With a deliberate flick of her wrist, the torn pieces sailed through the air, fluttering softly before settling in the trash with a muted rustle. She stood still, her chest rising and falling unevenly, the silence around her pressing close like a suffocating blanket.

Her eyes remained fixed on the trashcan, the finality of the gesture settling into her bones. She wanted to feel something. Anything. But the storm inside was silent. The storm had gone still.

The room felt colder somehow, the harsh hospital lights casting stark shadows across Harper's worn face. Her breath was shallow, heartbeat pounding in her ears louder than the flickering fluorescent hum. The weight of silence broke with the sound of the door swinging open.

Josie stepped in without hesitation, her eyes locking onto Harper like a predator sizing up prey. 

"So.." she began, voice low but cutting like a knife. "If the whispers are true. Suspected killer. Quite the title to carry."

Harper barely lifted her gaze from the cracked linoleum floor, her voice flat, void of energy. "Doesn't matter what you think. I don't care."

Her jaw clenched tightly, muscle twitching with suppressed rage, but underneath it all was something darker—a numbness that dulled the sting of Josie's words. 

"I'm not a suspect. No one's charged me. Stop spreading your poison like you actually know something. What are you even doing here?"

Josie took a deliberate step closer, heat radiating off her in waves of accusation. 

"I'm not stupid, Harper. Camille told me the truth—you weren't with her that night. So why the hell are you letting her lie for you? What secrets are you drowning in that you need a shadow to cover your tracks?"

Harper's eyes finally flicked up, cold and unblinking. "I didn't ask Camille to do anything. Stop acting like you're the hero here." Her voice sharpened suddenly, biting. 

"You don't get to have a say in any of this."

Josie's lips curled into a thin, grim smile, but her eyes stayed sharp, relentless. 

"Whatever lies you're hiding Harper—they'll only drag you down deeper and deeper. And I'm not letting you drag Camille down with you. She doesn't deserve that."

"You know she's gone to the police for you? If this goes to court, she will be put on stand at trial. Are you really going to let her put herself through all that? For what, Harper? What's the end goal?"

Harper's chest heaved, but there was no fight left in her, only bitter weariness. She stared at Josie with a vacant look, as if she were a ghost, unaffected. 

"Shut up. Your words don't mean anything to me anymore. You don't get to waltz in here and start throwing accusations around like that. You really fucking think I'm capable of killing somebody, Josie?"

Harper stepped forward.

"But know this, If I did kill my grandmother, I would've done it a long fucking time ago. And I wouldn't have stepped foot in that camp for a start."

Her eyes burned with tears she refused to shed. Her voice cracked, raw and desperate, but strangely distant. 

"Now do me a favour and get the hell out. Leave me alone. I don't want you here—haven't wanted you here—for a long fucking time."

For a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath — two fractured souls caught between the past and an uncertain, dangerous future.