Chapter 8: The Ties That Choke
Clara's paintings haunted Leah.
They followed her into her sleep, into her waking moments. She dreamed of them—those faces, contorted in pain, frozen in twisted smiles. Each canvas seemed to pulse, like something alive, breathing with a life that wasn't her own. But the one that haunted her the most was the one that wasn't there. The one she couldn't see but felt. It lingered just behind Clara's eyes, behind the steady gaze that never wavered.
It was a version of Leah that even the Beast didn't recognize.
That version of her—so twisted, so broken, so empty—was the one Clara was too afraid to paint. And that scared Leah more than anything. It was the one she didn't want to become. But it was already inside her, rotting away her soul, just waiting to break free.
They didn't speak of the basement after that night. They didn't need to. It hung between them, like fog, clinging to their skin, making every word feel like it might suffocate them. But life went on. They returned to the greenhouse, their place of silence and growth, of vines and roots and flowers that bled out of their cracked pots like unwanted children.
Each day, the plants grew taller, wilder. The colors became more violent—reds like blood, purples like bruises, white petals stained brown by rain. The air thickened with scent and silence. They didn't speak much anymore. There was no need for words. They understood each other in ways that made communication unnecessary. Clara's presence anchored Leah in a way nothing else could.
Until the letter came.
Leah found it in her locker one afternoon, folded neatly, the paper crisp like it had been waiting there for days. No name. No return address. Just one sentence, printed in sharp, blocky letters that burned into her brain:
"You didn't kill Jason."
Leah stared at it, heart thudding against her ribs, blood pounding in her ears. The Beast stirred inside her, coiling tighter, like a snake preparing to strike. It wasn't the words themselves that sent a chill through her. It was what they meant.
Because it was a lie.
Or worse.
It was the truth she hadn't wanted to face.
She'd followed Jason that night. Watched him stumble through the woods, drunk and desperate. She remembered the rock in her hand, the weight of it, how it had felt like it belonged there. How it had been natural. But then—
A gap.
A blank.
She remembered his scream, yes. But not only from her. There was something else there. Something in the dark.
The Beast whispered: You didn't finish it.
That was when Leah knew. The words on the letter were not just a warning. They were the truth she hadn't wanted to face.
She went straight to Clara that afternoon, the letter crushed in her fist. Her fingers were shaking, but she didn't let herself breathe. Clara was crouched in the dirt, her hands stained with soil, her cheeks flushed as though she'd been running, as though she'd been hiding something too.
"Someone knows," Leah said, her voice tight, strained with the weight of the letter.
Clara didn't look surprised. She just nodded, her gaze flicking to the ground for a moment, before meeting Leah's eyes again. "I know."
Leah's breath caught, the air thick with suspicion. "That's not what I meant."
Clara stood slowly, brushing the dirt from her knees, and the quiet tension grew even heavier between them. "Maybe it is."
A pause. A cold stretch of silence between them, sharp as a knife.
Leah stepped forward, her eyes narrowing. "Did you follow me?"
Clara met her gaze, her eyes unreadable. "No." A pause, long and deliberate. "I was already there."
The words hit Leah like a punch to the stomach. She felt the blood drain from her face, her chest tightening with something colder than fear.
The air around them went still.
Leah's pulse thundered in her ears, loud enough to drown out everything else. The plants seemed to breathe, as if the very garden knew something was about to break.
"What did you do?" Leah's voice was low, almost a whisper, but the tremor in it was unmistakable.
Clara didn't flinch. She just looked away, her eyes distant, as if she were lost in the memory. "What you couldn't."
The words sliced through Leah, and the world seemed to tilt. For a moment, all she could hear was the rustling of the vines, the soft hiss of the wind outside. And then, lightning cracked above them, sudden and blinding. The glass above rattled as if the storm had grown angry, furious with the secrets the garden held. The rain began to fall, drumming against the broken glass like a warning.
"I didn't need you to—"
"I didn't do it for you," Clara's voice was sharp, cutting through the air. "I did it for me."
The Beast inside Leah stirred, furious, coiling tighter, wanting to rip through the air. But beneath that rage was something colder. Something darker.
Jealousy.
Clara had stolen her moment. Her kill. Her truth.
The realization burned in Leah's chest like acid. Clara had taken it from her, had stepped into the darkness Leah had been so careful to control, had claimed the part of her that was hers to own. Clara had done what Leah couldn't—what she wouldn't.
And yet, Leah didn't move. She didn't strike. She didn't lash out.
The vines swayed around them, the flowers blooming like wounds in the rain-soaked silence. The garden seemed to hold its breath as the two of them stood there, the weight of everything pressing down on them like a storm cloud ready to burst.
"I think I hate you," Leah whispered, her voice barely audible in the storm.
Clara smiled, and there was something soft, almost sad in it. "That's how I know you need me."
Leah's stomach twisted. The words stung more than they should have. The smile Clara gave her wasn't one of mockery. It was knowing. It was recognition.
And in that moment, Leah realized something.
Clara had always known.
They stood there in the greenhouse, soaked in rain and secrets, neither of them moving. The plants bloomed around them, fragile and wild, as if they were the only things left alive in the world.
And somewhere deep inside, the Beast smiled too.
Because now, it wasn't alone.
Not anymore.