I knew that was a lie the second it left her lips. The sleepover was an excuse; a convenient answer to avoid questions she didn’t want to deal with. Beverly had always been a good liar. Not in a manipulative way—she just knew how to make things sound believable. But tonight? She hadn’t even tried to sell it, hadn’t rambled about what movies they’d watch, which snacks Tiffany’s mom bought, or which nail polish color she was planning to steal from Tiffany’s collection this time.

She just said she was going. And that was it.

That alone told me something was wrong.

Beverly was innocent, but she wasn’t the type of girl to pass up fun. She loved to dance, to socialize, to laugh. Lately, she’d tried to drag me to countless parties. Maybe if she didn’t think I was so miserable, she would have invited me to the one she’d been at tonight.

Or maybe she hadn’t wanted me there.

Or maybe she had.

Maybe that was the problem.

I stared up at the ceiling, jaw tight.

Maybe I was overthinking it.

Maybe she really was at Tiffany’s, eating junk food and talking about boy bands or whatever girls talked about at sleepovers.

Then I heard it.

A sound too soft for anyone else to notice. But I noticed.

A muffled sob, barely there, seeping through the quiet of the house like a crack in the walls.

A sound so soft I thought I imagined it.

I sat up instantly, my body tensing. For a moment, I wasn’t sure if I’d really heard it or if my mind was playing tricks on me. But then it came again. A quiet, hitched breath, the kind that comes from someone trying to hold it in but failing.

Beverly.

She was here. Crying?

The realization sent a ripple of unease through me; a slow, creeping tension that curled around my ribs and squeezed.

Beverly wasn’t the type to cry.

Not like this. Not in the middle of the night, not alone, and certainly not in the way that she didn’t want anyone to hear. Something was wrong.

My body reacted before my mind could catch up. I was already out of bed, moving quickly, tension in every step. When I reached her door, I hesitated for only a second before pushing it open.

The lamp on her nightstand was on, casting a warm glow over the room. Her bed was untouched—neatly made, not even a wrinkle in the sheets. There was no sign that she’d even tried to sleep. I scanned the room, my pulse rising with each second I didn’t find her. The sobs were still there, but she wasn’t.

Then I heard the low rush of water. The bathroom.

My stomach churned with a cold, creeping feeling.