The doorknob was cold. Aria turned it slowly, almost expecting something to stop her. But nothing did.
Amara's room was exactly as it had been left. Untouched. Stilled in time. Dust floated like snowfall in the air, and everything smelled faintly of lavender and old paper.
Aria stepped inside.
Her boots sank into the plush rug. The same one they used to sit on while painting each other's nails, listening to old records they both pretended to hate.
She walked to the desk. A leather notebook sat there, closed neatly as if waiting.
She opened it.
Most of it was mundane—lists, doodles, pieces of poetry. But near the end, one page was circled, angry and frantic.
"He found out. I have to disappear. If this doesn't work, tell Aria... I'm sorry."
Her breath caught in her throat.
Who was he?
And what had he found out?
The wood creaked behind her. She turned, heart already racing.
Xander stood in the doorway, his presence heavy in the silence. "You okay?" he asked, voice low.
"No," she whispered. "Not even close."
He stepped inside. Not touching anything. Just... watching her.
"I think she faked it," Aria said. "I think she faked everything."
Xander didn't flinch. Didn't blink.
That was worse than any lie.