Chapter 51: THE DISAPPEARING THREAD
"She wouldn’t leave without her sketchbook," Savannah said, her voice sharper than she meant it to be.
Rhett didn’t look at her. He stood at the edge of Camille’s bedroom, his arms folded across his chest, jaw ticking with tension. Moonlight filtered through the tall arched window, casting fractured light over the pale sheets of the unmade bed. The silence between them clung like static, restless and too quiet to be innocent.
Savannah moved closer, her steps slow but deliberate as she crossed the threshold. The room smelled faintly of lilac and ash, like something lovely that had burned. On the desk, Camille’s journal lay half-open, its spine cracked and bleeding ink. A streak of blood cut across the final page, smeared with the edge of a fingerprint. The last entry ended mid-sentence.
"She didn’t run," Savannah said again, her voice steadier now. "She was taken."
Rhett finally spoke, though it sounded more like a growl than a word. "There were no guards on the east wing after dusk. Lucien pulled them. He didn’t tell me."
"That’s not like Lucien," she replied, kneeling by the foot of the bed. A shattered mirror lay beneath it, sharp edges of glass glinting like tiny stars in the carpet. "Unless he had a reason."
Rhett didn’t answer. His silence wasn’t agreement, it was calculation. Savannah knew that look well enough by now. He was sifting possibilities, weighing betrayals, trying to choose which fire to put out first.
She found the torn sketch under the bed.
It was of Magnolia, half-complete, eyes unfinished. The paper was ripped diagonally from corner to corner, and a second blood smear ran across the side of Magnolia’s neck. Whoever took Camille hadn’t done it cleanly.
"Why her?" Savannah asked quietly. "Why now?"
Rhett exhaled through his nose, pacing to the window. "Because of what she knows. Or what she’s about to remember."