Chapter Ninety Five - The Last Goodbye

The night held its breath, silent and heavy, as if the house itself was waiting for something to break the stillness.

Harper crept down the narrow hallway of the second floor, her bare feet padding softly against the cold wooden floorboards. The faint glow of the nightlight cast shadows that flickered and stretched, dancing on the walls like ghosts from the past. She clutched the folded note in her hand, the paper crinkling softly — a fragile promise she'd left for her parents, who would wake to find it on the kitchen table. 

She swallowed hard, the words burning in her chest like a secret too big to hold.

She paused outside the door of her parents' bedroom. The warm yellow light beneath the crack was a small comfort, a reminder of the family she was still a part of—even as she felt herself slipping away. Her fingers twitched against the doorframe but she didn't knock. Instead, she moved silently toward her own bedroom at the far end of the hall.

Inside, the room was dim, bathed in the soft glow of the nightlight on the dresser. The scent of lavender lotion mixed with the faint trace of Aura's cherry lip balm still lingered in the air, comforting in its familiarity. 

Harper's eyes scanned the small space she shared with her younger siblings. Jackson's side, cluttered with comics and a half-empty soda can, his blankets tangled as if he'd fallen asleep mid-movement; Aura's bed, smaller and neat, where her little sister lay curled tightly under a floral blanket, her breath soft and even.

Harper crouched low beside Aura's bed, careful not to wake her. She smoothed the blanket gently over Aura's shoulder. 

Jackson was further away, deeper in sleep, unaware of the storm brewing in the house tonight.

Harper's hand lingered on Aura's pillow, where the imprint of her own head still rested from nights spent comforting her little sister during bad dreams. A sudden ache hit her—a yearning for simpler times, for the safety they'd all once felt in this room.

Slowly, she rose and slipped out, closing the door with a gentle click behind her.

The house felt colder downstairs, the silence heavier. Harper's steps echoed faintly as she moved through the darkened hallway, passing faded family photographs pinned along the walls. 

Her hand brushed the doorknob to the back exit—the one leading to the driveway and the street beyond. Just as she was about to open it, a soft noise stopped her, the familiar creak of the winery door opening.

She turned sharply.

Harriet stood there, barefoot, wrapped in an oversized cardigan, hair pulled up messily as if she'd just rolled out of bed. Her eyes were wide with tired worry, shifting between confusion and fear.

"Harper, where are you going?" she asked quietly, voice hoarse like she'd been asleep and suddenly jolted awake.

Harper swallowed and tried to steady her voice. "Just out."

Harriet frowned. "Mom and Dad said no more sneaking out. You promised them.."

Harper stepped forward slowly. "I'm not sneaking out, Harriet. I'm going to the police station."

Harriet's eyes widened, disbelief flickering across her face. "What?"

Harper pulled the note from her pocket. "I wrote this for Mom and Dad. They'll find it in the morning."

Harriet took a hesitant step closer, arms crossed tightly over her chest. "You can't seriously be thinking about turning yourself in. Harper, think about this, okay?"

"It's the only way, Harriet." Harper said softly, but with steel beneath her words.

Harriet shook her head, frustration and fear mingling in her expression. "It's not a good idea. They could lock you up. What if you get arrested?"

Harper nodded, her eyes steady and unflinching. "Then I get arrested."

"No, you don't deserve that." Harriet's voice cracked on the last word.

Harper's own voice faltered. "Maybe not. But Camille doesn't deserve it either. And neither do any of you."

Harriet's brow furrowed deeper. "What do you mean?"

Harper's gaze softened, her voice trembling just enough to show how much this hurt. 

"I'm going to tell them everything. That you all were lying and trying to protect me, that you didn't know the whole truth. That Camille only lied because I begged her to. You shouldn't have to carry this with me anymore."

Harriet blinked back tears. "But it's not your fault. Not completely."

Harper closed her eyes for a moment, letting the truth settle in the air between them. "It doesn't matter whose fault it is anymore. I've scared you. I've scared everyone. I made choices without thinking about the cost. I didn't pull the trigger, but I wanted to. And that is bad enough."

Her voice cracked as she added, "If I keep hiding, I'll just keep dragging you all down."

They stood in the quiet house, moonlight spilling through the windows in silver pools. Then Harriet took a step forward and wrapped Harper in a hug—tight and fierce, as if holding her little sister close could protect them both from the unknown.

Harper pulled back slowly, wiping the sting from her eyes.

"Tell Cody, Jackson and Aura I love them." she whispered.

Harriet nodded, voice small. "I will."

Harper opened the door and stepped out into the night. The cold air bit at her cheeks, the sound of crickets filling the silence.

The house was swallowed in silence, every creak and whisper magnified in the stillness of the night. Harriet walked and stood just inside her bedroom doorway, her back pressed against the cool wall, eyes glued to the faint silhouette of Harper slipping into the dark. A pang twisted deep in her chest—a tangled knot of worry, fear, and something heavier. Guilt.

They hadn't gone together that night. Harper had gone first, gripping the cold weight of the gun she never spoke of. Harriet's visit had come later, quiet and desperate—her hands trembling as she clutched the small bottle of crushed pills, fragments of a plan no one else knew. Different methods, same dark intent.

But only one of them was ready to face what came next.

Harriet swallowed hard, the metallic taste of fear sharp on her tongue. She wasn't like Harper—bold enough to walk into the storm and meet it head-on. She was fragile in a different way: scared of the consequences, terrified of the judgment waiting behind every door, in every whispered conversation.

What if the police saw her as a criminal?

What if her parents' disappointed eyes were the last she'd ever see?

What if the friends she had left stopped talking to her, their silence louder than any accusation?

Harriet had always been a people-pleaser. The one who smiled when she wanted to scream, who said "I'm fine" when everything inside was breaking.

She cared too much. Too much about appearances, about keeping the fragile peace in their family intact, about hiding the cracks no one else saw.

And as much as it hurt to admit, she believed—maybe unfairly—that Harper's history with mental health and the hospital would buy her some leniency. Some understanding.

Maybe Harper would get a chance to make it right.

Because Harriet wasn't ready.

Not yet.