Inside the bathroom, water poured steadily from the shower, steam curling into the air—but Winter stood motionless, fully dressed, her body rigid and her mind a whirlwind of turmoil.
She hadn't even stepped under the water.
Beatrix's voice still echoed in her head, every accusation stabbing deeper than the last. "It's because of you I lost my daughter!" The words had been laced with grief and fury, but they hit Winter like a verdict—final and unforgiving.
She had tried to distract herself earlier. Tried to be strong. But now, in the silence of the bathroom with only the sound of rushing water to accompany her spiraling thoughts, the guilt clawed at her again.
How could it be her fault?
She hadn't killed Dianna.
She hadn't stab her.
And yet… someone's daughter was dead.
And Winter had been the one Dianna came to. The one she trusted with the truth. The one she never reached.
