The rain had stopped, but the house still felt soaked—walls heavy with secrets, air thick with words no one dared to say.
Amanda stood at the top of the staircase, her fingers wrapped around the cold metal railing. Below her, the living room lights were on. Voices drifted upward—low, controlled, dangerous.
Duncan's voice.
And Monica's.
Amanda didn't mean to listen. That was the lie she would later tell herself. But some truths pull at you, and once they do, resistance becomes pointless.
"You promised me," Monica said. Her tone was sharp, stripped of the softness she wore in public. "You said this would be finished."
Duncan exhaled slowly. "I said I would handle it."
"That boy—Cedric—" Monica spat the name. "He's still breathing. Still causing problems."
Amanda's heart skipped.
Cedric.
So it wasn't paranoia. It wasn't coincidence.
Duncan's reply came after a pause. "Cedric isn't the threat here."
Silence followed. Heavy. Loaded.
Amanda leaned closer.
"You're underestimating him," Monica said. "People like him don't just disappear. They talk. They remember."
"And people like you," Duncan shot back, "panic when the past taps the window."
Amanda froze.
Past.
A floorboard creaked beneath her foot.
Downstairs, the voices stopped.
"Amanda?" Monica called, instantly sweet.
Too sweet.
Amanda swallowed and stepped into view, forcing a casual expression. "I was getting water."
Duncan looked up slowly. His eyes met hers—and held. There was something there she had never noticed before. Not anger. Not warmth.
Calculation.
"Everything alright?" he asked.
"Yes," Amanda said, too quickly.
Monica smiled. "Of course it is. Go back to bed."
Amanda nodded and turned away, but her pulse was racing.
She hadn't heard everything—but she'd heard enough.
Cedric wasn't lying.
And whatever Duncan and Monica were hiding… it was still alive.
Cedric lay on his bunk, staring at the underside of the metal frame above him. The prison was quieter tonight, the kind of quiet that carried intent.
The man from the yard sat on the lower bunk, cleaning his nails with a folded piece of paper.
"They been watching you," the man said without looking up.
Cedric didn't move. "Who?"
The man smirked. "Doesn't matter. In here, attention is currency. And you're getting expensive."
Cedric clenched his jaw.
He didn't have a phone. Didn't have freedom. Didn't even have privacy.
But he could feel it.
Something was shifting outside these walls.
Someone was digging.
A guard passed by the cell, slowing just enough to make a point.
"You've got visitors coming," the guard muttered.
"When?" Cedric asked.
The guard shrugged. "Soon."
Then he walked on.
Cedric lay back, heart pounding.
If someone was moving pieces on the outside, it meant fear had entered the room.
And fear always made mistakes.
Across town, Naomi sat on her bed, knees pulled to her chest. Her phone lay face-down beside her, as if it might accuse her if she looked at it.
Ella's words echoed in her head.
We did what we had to do.
Naomi squeezed her eyes shut.
No. Ella had done what she thought was necessary. Their mother had pulled the strings. Naomi had just… followed.
Or so she'd told herself.
But Cedric's face haunted her—not angry, not cruel.
Just confused.
Hurt.
That was worse.
Her phone buzzed.
A message from a contact saved only as A.
You okay?
Amanda.
Naomi hesitated, then typed.
Do you ever feel like the truth is screaming, but no one wants to hear it?
The reply came almost instantly.
Every day.
Naomi's breath caught.
Her fingers hovered over the screen.
Then she typed another message—but didn't send it.
Not yet.
Duncan locked his study door and opened the drawer he rarely touched. Inside lay a thin folder—yellowed edges, official stamps.
A mistake he had meant to destroy.
He flipped it open.
The document stared back at him, silent and damning. Not proof of favoritism. Not proof of cruelty.
Proof of love.
Equal accounts. Equal protections. Equal sacrifices.
All his children.
He closed the folder slowly.
Monica had never known.
She had built her hatred on a lie.
Footsteps approached outside the door.
"Duncan?" Monica called. "What are you doing?"
He slid the folder back and locked the drawer.
"Fixing things," he said.
And for the first time, he wasn't sure which side he meant.
Amanda sat alone in the guest room later that night, documents spread across the bed. Phone records. Dates. Small inconsistencies most people would miss.
But lies always left fingerprints.
She picked up her phone and typed a message to the lawyer.
I'm ready. Whatever it takes.
The reply came moments later.
Good. Because pressure is building.
Amanda closed her eyes.
Somewhere behind concrete walls, her son was learning how to survive a system that had already judged him.
Somewhere in this house, the truth was beginning to crack.
And when lies start to crack—
They don't fall quietly.
They break things.