Chapter Eighty Nine - Between Mother And Daughter

The street was hushed, lined with aging trees whose long shadows stretched over cracked sidewalks like silent sentinels. A soft wind stirred fallen leaves, whispering secrets Camila wasn't ready to hear.

Camila's fingers trembled as she gripped the steering wheel, heart pounding against her ribs. She stared at the dim porch light, faint but steady, casting a halo over the chipped paint of the weathered door. Cody had dropped Harper off here — but what had happened afterward? The unknown pressed in on her like cold fog.

Thomas placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "Are you sure you want to do this now?"

She swallowed, swallowing the lump in her throat. "We don't have a choice."

The door swung open before they could knock. Julia stood there, pale and drawn, shadows under her eyes deep as wells. The lines etched on her face made her look smaller, as if the weight of last night had crushed something vital from her.

"Come in." Julia whispered, her voice barely above the quiet rustle of her clothes. She stepped aside and led them into the dim living room where the faint scent of cold tea and stale air hung thick.

Camila sat, her hands folded tightly in her lap, eyes darting nervously around the room. Julia's hands trembled as she settled opposite them, clutching a worn blanket like a lifeline.

"I need to tell you something about Harper. Something I found out." Julia began, voice fragile, like glass ready to shatter.

Camila's chest tightened. She braced herself.

Julia's gaze dropped to her hands. "She told me... she confessed. About what she was really doing that night at mom's house."

Thomas leaned in, silent but present.

"She took a gun with her." Julia continued, voice barely a whisper. "She planned to kill her."

Camila's breath caught, cold and sharp.

Julia's eyes locked with Camila's. "But she didn't. She said she was too weak to do it. Instead... she turned the gun on herself."

The room plunged into silence. The kind that suffocates and presses heavy against your chest.

Camila blinked away the sting in her eyes. "

Camila swallowed past the lump in her throat. "Thank you for telling me now."

Julia's eyes shifted toward the staircase, dark and silent as a tomb. "She's upstairs. Fragile. I think she's sleeping but.."

Camila rose, every step feeling like wading through thick mud. Her legs were leaden as she faced the narrow staircase that wound upward like a coil of tension.

Thomas was close behind, but she felt utterly alone.

Halfway up, she paused, her hand trembling as it hovered near the banister. A wave of doubt crashed over her. What if she pushes me away? What if she's not ready? What if I'm walking into a place I can't come back from?

The hallway was dim, the peeling wallpaper curling like dead skin under the faint glow of the single bulb. The silence here was too loud — every creak of floorboards echoing like a warning.

Camila's hand lingered on the chipped doorknob to the guest room. Her breath hitched. Her fingers were cold and clammy as she slowly turned it, each tiny squeak of the hinges reverberating in her chest.

Inside, Harper lay curled on her side beneath a threadbare quilt. The faded fabric swallowed her small frame. Her dark hair was tangled against the pale pillow, and the shadows under her eyes carved hollows too deep for her sixteen years.

The room smelled faintly of lavender and something heavier — sadness, fear, and resignation.

Camila hesitated, her throat tight. She wanted to rush forward, to gather Harper in her arms, but the fear of breaking something fragile held her still.

"Harper.." she whispered, voice barely a breath.

No answer.

Camila's hand moved forward slowly, almost reverently, as if reaching toward a fragile glass sculpture poised to shatter with the slightest touch. Her fingers hovered a moment, breath held, before gently brushing a loose, tangled strand of Harper's hair away from her pale, drawn face.

In that instant, Harper's composure completely crumbled.

A heartbreaking sob tore from deep within her chest, raw and ragged. Her whole body convulsed with the weight of years she had carried alone — a crushing mixture of fear, guilt, and sorrow. Her trembling shoulders heaved uncontrollably, wracking her small frame beneath the faded quilt. The tears came in torrents, streaming down her cheeks and soaking the threadbare fabric beneath her like a slow, quiet flood.

Her skin, once smooth and vibrant, was pale and drawn tight over her cheekbones. Her lips quivered helplessly, cracked from days or years of silence. Dark circles ringed her eyes, eyes that now squeezed shut as if trying to hold back the pain but failing.

Camila's own vision blurred, tears spilling freely as she closed the distance and wrapped her arms around Harper's shaking form. She held her daughter close, pulling her into a protective embrace, feeling the brittle fragility beneath her fingertips.

"It's okay." she whispered, voice thick and breaking with emotion. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

Harper clung to her like a frightened child lost in a storm, as if holding Camila tightly could somehow stave off the relentless darkness clawing at her mind and soul.

Minutes passed like hours. The sobs gradually subsided into ragged breaths, but the tremble in Harper's body did not. She remained exhausted—physically drained, as if all the fight had been wrung from her limbs. Her fingers curled weakly around Camila's shirt, skin cold and clammy, her chest rising and falling unevenly beneath the quilt.

Slowly, Harper shifted her head, eyes glassy and bloodshot, heavy with pain and unshed tears. When she finally looked up at Camila, her gaze was fragile and raw, a child exposed and vulnerable.

"You told Aunt Julia the truth." Camila said gently, her voice steady despite the turmoil inside.

Harper's lips quivered with an uncertain tremble. "Are you going to tell the police?" Her voice was small, almost defeated.

Camila shook her head firmly, resolute. "No. Not unless we have to."

Harper's voice dropped to a hollow whisper, drained of hope. "You think I'm a monster."

Camila cupped Harper's face tenderly, brushing away the wet strands clinging to her cheek, tears streaming down her own face. "No. You're my daughter. You're hurting. And that's okay."

Harper's lower lip quivered again as she swallowed hard, eyes flickering with a flicker of pain so deep it seemed to pull at her soul. "I was going to kill her."

"I know.. But you didn't." Camila said softly, voice steady and full of quiet strength. "That is what matters."

Harper's gaze dropped to the quilt, unable to meet Camila's eyes. "Why won't the pain stop, mom?" she whispered, voice cracking. "Why does it feel like it's inside me... everywhere?"

Camila's heart ached at the raw honesty. "Because it's still fresh, Harp." she said, honestly. "Because you haven't let yourself heal yet. Because the wound is deep."

Harper closed her eyes briefly, exhaustion pulling at her like a heavy shroud. "I didn't want you to be ashamed of me, I'm so tired of people feeling ashamed of me." she whispered, voice small and fragile.

"Never." Camila said fiercely, her voice unwavering. "You're the bravest girl I know."

Harper exhaled shakily, releasing a breath she'd been holding for too long. She clung to Camila tighter, as if holding on to something real—something solid enough to anchor her fragile heart.

Outside the window, a gentle rain began to fall, the soft patter against the glass like a quiet hymn, a lullaby for broken souls.

Camila reached up and brushed a tangled strand of hair from Harper's damp forehead, the skin beneath cool and clammy. "You can sleep now." she whispered, voice soft as velvet. "I'm not going anywhere."

For the first time in what felt like forever, the room seemed less like a cage and more like a sanctuary—fragile and imperfect, but holding within it a flicker of hope, a chance for healing to begin.

Camila lingered in the quiet sanctuary of the guest room a little longer, eyes tracing the soft curves of her daughter's resting face. Every fragile breath seemed to carry the weight of unspoken pain and shattered trust. When Harper finally slipped into a restless sleep, Camila rose slowly, careful not to disturb the fragile peace.

The silence outside the door felt thick and heavy as she stepped downstairs. The house was still — shadows pooling in corners, the faint scent of rain clinging to the air. Her footsteps echoed softly against the worn wooden floors.

She paused at the foot of the stairs, folding her arms as a wave of conflicting feelings crashed over her.

Her mother — once a towering figure of strength and sometimes fear — was gone. A woman who had ruled their lives with a cold, unyielding hand, who could be ruthless and cruel. The truth was undeniable: she had done terrible things, cast long shadows that had touched them all. Yet despite the scars and the bitterness, Camila's heart twisted painfully in her chest at the thought of losing her.

For all her faults, her mother was the person Camila had loved and respected most in the world. The thought of her murder still cut deep, a raw wound that time had not healed. The knowledge that her own daughter had been driven to want to kill that woman shattered something fragile inside her — a heartache that no explanation could ease.

Camila's breath caught as she sat down heavily at the dining table, head bowed. She thought about Harper — broken, exhausted, carrying a burden no child should ever bear. And she thought about the dark legacy of her mother's cruelty, the shadows that had shaped their family's story.

How could love and hate coexist so fiercely? How could her daughter's fierce survival instinct twist into something so dark and desperate?

Tears pricked her eyes, unbidden but real. Camila pressed a hand to her mouth, struggling to keep her emotions in check. The weight of grief and guilt settled around her like a heavy cloak — suffocating, relentless.

For a long moment, she simply sat there, letting the silence fill the space between memories and the painful present.

Then, slowly, she wiped her eyes and steeled herself. There would be hard conversations ahead. Choices to make. But for now, all she could do was hold her daughter's truth gently — a fragile, painful thing — and find the courage to keep moving forward.

The dining room felt cold, despite the warm yellow light hanging overhead. Camila sat at the edge of the table, her fingers twisting her wedding ring absently, her eyes unfocused as if chasing a fleeting thought she couldn't quite grasp.

Thomas stood near the doorframe, arms crossed, brow furrowed deep with concern. Julia leaned against the bookcase watching the others carefully, her jaw tight but her eyes soft with empathy.

Camila finally broke the silence, her voice low and trembling with restrained emotion. 

"She's already in therapy. Weekly sessions. Medication. Everything we've pushed for. And yet..." She trailed off, unable to finish the sentence. The unspoken truth hung thick in the air. Harper was still broken. Still drowning in her own mind. Still clearly lost.

Julia nodded, stepping forward. "That's the problem. What she's doing now? It's not enough. Or it's the wrong kind. The system is set up for the basics — keeping her stable, keep her safe. But there's no real healing happening. No space to dig deeper."

Thomas's voice was measured but heavy. 

"We've been treating symptoms, not the root. It's clear that therapy once a week, a handful of pills... it's not enough for what Harper is carrying. She needs intensive care, the kind that makes you uncomfortable because it means confronting everything."

Camila's hands clenched into fists on the table. "Bringing her home feels right for now — like the only chance she has to feel human again. But I'm scared. What if the house becomes a trap? What if the memories, the ghosts, all the pain become too much here?"

Julia gave a small, bitter laugh. 

"We can't keep her locked away in Warren Cami, either. It's meant to protect her, but sometimes it just feels like punishment. She's obviously suffocating there. This... this might be the only way she can start to breathe again. Being around family, her siblings."

Thomas reached out and took Camila's hand gently. 

Camila's eyes shimmered with tears she refused to shed just yet. 

"Alright. But this time, no cutting corners. No ignoring the signs. More therapy. More monitoring. Every medication checked and rechecked. We can't afford to fail her again."

Julia nodded solemnly. "Agreed. We do this carefully. Together."

Rain began to tap softly against the window, a quiet hymn of sorrow and hope intertwined. In that moment, the room felt less like a place of despair and more like the fragile beginning of something new — a chance for Harper and the Baldwins to find themselves again.