Chapter 93 But Her Voice?

• The first pale ribbon of morning stretched thin across the horizon, like the sky had just cracked an eye open and wasn’t too thrilled about it. A faint blush of light painted the edge of Liam’s bedroom window, tentative and cold. He was already awake.
• He hadn’t really slept, unless one counts lying in the dark, watching shadows crawl across the ceiling while regret chewed holes in your stomach. The decision he’d made last night still pulsed beneath his skin like an old bruise pressed too hard. Sleep had tried—sort of—but gave up after an hour or two, leaving behind a trail of fragmented dreams: Rosie’s wounded eyes, Alistair’s annoyingly quiet look, and the soundless echo of an empty villa.
• At some point, he’d stopped pretending. The sheets were twisted around his legs like seaweed determined to drag him under, and he’d flung them off with something between frustration and finality. Enough. If he was going to be haunted, he might as well do it standing up.