Layla walks out of the psychiatric facility forty-eight hours before Richard's Final Phase.
The timing can't be coincidence.
Harper shows me the news alert on her phone. There's a photo of Layla looking serene, almost ethereal, wearing white like she's some kind of angel. Her statement to the press is brief, rehearsed, unsettlingly calm.
I've completed my treatment and I'm ready to move forward with my life. I harbor no ill will toward anyone, including my stepsister. I just want peace. I'm moving to California next week to start fresh where no one knows my past. Thank you for respecting my privacy during this transition.
"She's lying." I set down the phone, hands trembling. "That entire statement is a lie. Layla doesn't want peace. And she's definitely not moving to California."
"How
