Chapter Twelve

Sam curled against my side on the porch swing, her sock half-slid down and her legs kicking the wood slats in a lazy rhythm.

She scribbled furiously on a pad of hotel stationery I couldn’t remember getting, her tongue poking from the corner of her mouth.

"Stars all gone," Sam said, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. She pressed her crayon down so hard the tip snapped.

I flinched. Then glanced down.

The drawing wasn’t a house. Not in the way kids usually draw them. No windows. No smiling sun. Just a staircase spiraling up into a black knot, ringed by little hollow circles. Like eyes with nothing inside.

“There’s lots of stairs in the house,” Sam said. She was still coloring, still chasing some vision only she could see. “What if I can’t find my bedroom? What if I get lost, Auntie Allison?”

Something low in my throat broke loose. I pulled her closer, one arm folding around her small body like that could block out whatever was creeping in.

“Is this from a dream, sweetheart?”

“Uh-huh.” She nodded. Then, as if she remembered she was excited, she perked up. “I dreamed it.”

"Dreams are silly, honey," I said too quickly. "They're not real."

She looked up at me, crayon paused mid-scribble. “But what if the stairs eat the stars?”

I bundled her sketchpad away into my bag, fingers trembling just a little.

"Hey, guess what," I said brightly. "You're going to have a playdate today. With Krista."

“I am?” Her eyes went wide. She clapped her hands, forgetting all about the drawings. “I get to go to Krisa’s house? See the kitties?”

“You do.” I shoved the sketchpad into my bag, too gentle to be obvious, too quick to feel natural. My fingers were shaking. I kissed the top of her head. “She’s been waiting for you.”

Something was happening to her. Even though I had no evidence, I blamed Naveen. He was doing something. I didn’t know how. Not yet. But I could feel it—just like I’d once felt Bianca’s magic. The air around him warped. Too clean. Too quiet. He left a taste behind, like the smell of hot metal.

As if summoned, Stacey pulled up in her minivan. I heard the wail of her youngest, Kevin, from the car seat before the door even opened.

She was up the walk before I could finish standing.

“There you are,” Stacey said, like nothing had ever been wrong, as she scooped Sam into a hug. “You ready for pancakes and couch forts?”

Sam squealed. “I brought my purple crown!”

Stacey smiled at me over Sam’s shoulder. Warm. Familiar. Too kind.

I straightened my shirt sleeves, suddenly too aware of how wrinkled and slept-in I looked. “I’m—Stacey, I’m sorry. I should’ve called you back soon. I just—everything’s been a lot.”

Her smile didn’t waver. “You don’t owe me an apology. I was just worried. I’m glad you reached out.”

“Thank you,” I said, and meant it.

Behind her in the car, used to her little brother’s shrieking, Krista bounced in place on the passenger side, waving with both arms like she was trying to take flight. “Sam!”

Sam spotted her and bolted down the walkway, her little pink backpack thudding against her back, one hand holding her purple crown on her head. “Krisa!”

I smiled tightly. "She might be a little... tired today. She didn’t sleep well."

Stacey’s eyes flicked to my face — sharp and kind all at once.

"You okay?"

"I'm fine," I lied. "I’ve got a lot of errands.”

“How is the custody case going?”

“Fine,” I lied again. “I need to get going. I’m supposed to be—”

“Don’t you worry at all,” Stacey said, cutting me off before I had to make up any more lies. “You take your time. Do all the things you need to go do. If you need longer, let me know.”

She squeezed my arm, then turned away, back to the car and the waiting children.

The rain picked up as I drove.

By the time I climbed the steps into Madrona Ridge Recovery, the world had collapsed into headlights and cold gray air. The building had that industrial, over-sanitized smell—bleach and stale coffee and quiet resignation. Like a morgue with a reception desk.

A nurse led me up the stairs to Ziya’s room. Unlike most of the patients here, she had her own. That much money still bought privacy, even in purgatory.

I passed door after door—machines humming, television light flickering, lives suspended by wires and routines. Most of them weren’t really living. Just waiting. Bodies that hadn’t been let go.

Ziya would hate it here.

Too sterile. Too still. No music, no movement. No point.

We stepped inside Ziya’s room.

“I didn’t realize until last week who she was,” the nurse said softly. “Everyone’s been told not to talk about it, of course.”

She glanced toward the bed—something flickering behind her eyes. Pity, maybe. Or reverence.

“It’s just… sad,” she said. “We’re taking good care of her. Take your time.”

Her room hadn’t changed since my last visit. Same pale walls. Same low hum of machines. The recliner in the corner still sagged like it was tired of pretending to be useful. Everything generic. Nothing that made the space feel like Ziya’s.

They’d taken her off life support. No ventilator. No sedation. Just sleep.

She lay exactly as I’d left her—unmoving, untouched. Like the storybook kind. Sleeping Beauty, if the curse came with legal paperwork and long-term care insurance.

Her covers were pristine. Corners tucked. No ripple of breath beneath them. She still had the heart monitor. The IV. The feeding tube.

I pulled over the recliner, sitting next to her.

“We had pizza night last week. Sam ate three slices and announced she’s old enough to start a restaurant. Said she’d call it Pizza Pizza Crown.”

Ziya didn’t move. Not even a twitch beneath the hospital blanket.

“We went to Diana’s farm last weekend,” I said. “Sam got to pet the goats. She wants a chicken now. Diana offered to let us borrow one, but I told her that’s not how chickens work. The last thing I need is a chicken pooping all over the house.”

The machines kept humming. Steady. Unbothered. Like none of it mattered.

“I keep leaving messages for Meg,” I said quietly. “Still no word. I try not to worry. She’s invulnerable, right? Nothing can hurt her.”

The words turned to ash in my mouth.

“The custody hearing is this week. I’m doing everything right. All the forms. All the visits. All the proof that I’m stable enough, safe enough, normal enough to raise my best friend’s child.”

I pressed my lips together, swallowing the crack in my voice.

"Sam's been... different. Drawing things. Saying things. About leaving. About the stars going away. About not finding her room."

I dragged in a breath that rattled against my ribs.

“I think something’s wrong with Sam,” I whispered. “Not physically. She’s fine. But he’s doing something. Naveen. Your cousin. Why didn’t you ever tell us you had a cousin? In India? Does he have magic?”

My voice dropped even lower.

“I think he’s winning.”

I looked at Ziya’s hand—so still against the blanket. Perfectly placed. Like someone had come in just to make her look restful.

I wanted to touch her. More than anything. Just for a second. To feel something real. Something strong. But the magic was sitting too close under my skin.

Waiting and hungry.

If I touched her, I didn’t know what would happen.

“I miss you,” I said, the words barely a breath.

The machines kept humming.

The rain kept falling, streaking the window.

“I just wish you’d wake up. Fix everything. Like you always do.”

Ziya didn’t move.

Didn’t open her eyes.

Didn’t wake up.

“Please wake up,” I whispered. “I need you.”

I leaned back in the chair and blinked up at the ceiling, willing myself not to fall apart. It wouldn’t do for the nurse to walk in and find me sobbing. The Woman Visiting G23 Who Fell Apart.

I didn’t even know what I expected. That she’d just open her eyes? Look around? Ask what she’d missed like nothing had happened?

I stared at her for a long time, wondering what might be happening behind her closed eyes.

Was her mind still active?

Was she dreaming?

What had happened to her that locked her away like this—from us, from Sam?

From herself?

"I’ll keep her safe," I said finally. "I don't know how yet. But I will."

I stood up.

Pressed a kiss into the air just above her forehead.

Afraid to touch. Even that much.

On my way back down the hall toward the exit, I passed the nurse’s station.

The woman who’d led me upstairs looked up.

“How is she?” she asked, like there might’ve been a change.

“Fine.”

What else was I supposed to say?

As I turned to leave, the nurse hesitated. “I just thought you should know—she’s being transferred next week.”

I stopped. “Transferred?”

She nodded, a little cautious now. “Elysian Manor.”

The name meant nothing to me. It sounded expensive.

“They finalized it this morning. It's… well. It's one of the best. Private grounds. Full-staff suites. Honestly, it makes sense—for someone like her. Around the clock care. Unlike here, where I have the whole floor, she’ll have nurses assigned to her.” She offered a small smile, reverent and awkward all at once. “We don’t usually get people like her here.”

I said nothing. My mouth had gone dry.

“Her legal team coordinated everything. No family listed locally, so… the paperwork went through fast. They sent this over. I’ve never been inside. Can you imagine?"

She handed me a brochure—heavy cardstock, glossy with soft-focus photos of brick terraces and tranquil garden paths. It looked more like a wedding venue than a long-term care facility.

I stared at it until the text stopped making sense.

“Anyway,” the nurse added, as gently as she could. “I think she’ll be well looked after.”

I nodded like I agreed. Like I understood.

She meant well. She really did.

But all I heard was: We’re moving her because she’s not getting better.