Catherine insisted Sophie keep going to therapy, and Sophie did, even when she didn’t want to. Therapy wasn’t dramatic. It was slow. It was worksheets and breathing exercises and learning how to stop replaying a laugh in your head.
Sometimes Sophie would wake up from nightmares and text Catherine instead of me, because she didn’t want to scare me. Catherine told me that once, and I had to turn my face away because the idea of Sophie protecting me after I’d almost died was both heartbreaking and beautiful.
In January, I finally went back to the Fairmont.
Not inside. Just the parking lot.
I stood where I’d sat that first night, staring up at the third floor windows, and I felt my stomach twist. I remembered the moment I’d looked up and seen a shadow move behind the glass—Margaret’s silhouette, leaning toward someone, a hand lifted like she was holding something small and deadly. I hadn’t known then what it meant, but the image had branded itself into my mind.
I stayed there for a full minute, breathing cold air, letting my body feel the fear without obeying it.
Then I got back into my car and drove away.