Harper no longer knew how to breathe—let alone exist. There was a sickness inside her, something vile and heavy, something that gnawed away at her like rust eating through metal. She couldn't eat. Couldn't sleep. Every blink of her eyes dragged her back to that night, his breath on her skin, his weight pinning her down, the scratch of his fingernails and the way her body froze under him like a corpse.
She wasn't living anymore. She was surviving. Barely.
Each morning she woke up felt like a punishment.
He touched her.
He fucking touched her.
In her own house.
The pink satin duvet she once adored now felt suffocating. She sat cross-legged on it, the silky fabric cool beneath her trembling legs. Her fingernails dug into the soft flesh of her thighs, carving red half-moons into her skin as if pain could anchor her, remind her she was still real. Still here.
The room smelled faintly of vanilla and lavender, the scent of her childhood, of innocence. But none of it felt safe anymore. The walls felt too tight. The silence too loud.
Then came the sound of footsteps on the stairs, soft and rhythmic.
The door creaked open.
Harriet breezed in, a smile painted across her face, arms full of glossy fashion magazines. Her makeup was perfect, her energy light, as if the world hadn't shifted violently beneath their feet.
"You ready for girly night, lil' sis?" she chirped, tossing the magazines onto the bed with careless ease. "Got the new Vogue!"
Harper couldn't respond. Her throat felt raw, like she'd swallowed broken glass. The urge to cry, to scream, to vomit, threatened to tear out of her all at once.
She swallowed it back down.
"Harriet... I need to tell you something."
The mood in the room shifted instantly. The smile slipped from Harriet's lips. She lowered herself to the edge of the bed, frowning.
"What is it?" she asked softly.
Harper's voice trembled. "That night... when Tom came over. I was asleep and... he got on top of me. He started touching me. Trying to... do things to me."
The words hung in the air like smoke. Heavy. Suffocating.
For a long moment, Harriet didn't move. Her expression blanked, eyes darting to the wall behind Harper, as if she could find an escape there. Then she gave a small, tight shake of her head.
"Why the hell would you say something like that?"
Harper blinked, startled. "What?"
"That's not true. He wouldn't do that. He's not that kind of person." Harriet's voice was sharper now, laced with disbelief. "Why are you trying to make him sound like some kind of... predator?"
"Because he is a predator, Harriet!" Harper's voice cracked, hoarse with grief. "I'm telling the truth. I need to tell Mom and Dad—"
Harriet shot up, panic flashing across her face like lightning. "No! No, you are not telling them anything."
Harper stared at her, gut twisting. "Why not?"
Harriet's tone turned cold, her arms crossing tightly over her chest. "Because it's not real. You're just... confused. You were tired, half-asleep, maybe dreaming. You probably imagined it."
"I didn't imagine it!" Harper shouted. "Why would I make something like this up?!"
"I don't know, Harper. Maybe you want attention. Maybe you want to ruin things for me."
Harper flinched like she'd been struck. "I don't feel safe with him here." she whispered. "I don't feel safe in my own room, Harriet. Don't you get that?"
Harriet rolled her eyes, a bitter laugh escaping her. "He was probably just adjusting your blanket or something. Your head's all over the place. You don't know what's real anymore."
Harper stood up, her voice rising in fury. "I may have bipolar, but I'm not stupid. I know what happened. I know what he did."
But Harriet said nothing. She just stared at her like a stranger.
Then, without another word, she turned and slammed the door shut behind her, rattling the walls.
Harper collapsed back onto the bed, sobbing into her pillow. Her screams were muffled, choked by cotton and silence.
The room, once a haven, now felt like a coffin.
The days blurred together after that.
Harper stopped going to school. Stopped brushing her hair. Stopped opening the blinds. The house echoed with footsteps she didn't want to hear, laughter that felt like poison.
She told her parents she was staying with Aunt Julia. They didn't question it.
Nobody did.
No one noticed the way she shrank into herself. The way her voice disappeared. The way her eyes stopped shining.
No one but Mariah.
It was Mariah who coaxed the truth out of her. Who listened without flinching. Who didn't question her sanity or memory or worth. Harper cried as she spoke, voice trembling with pain, and Mariah listened.
And believed.
Without hesitation, Mariah went to Camila and Thomas.
But Harriet denied everything. With practiced ease, she told their parents that Harper was having another episode. That she was delusional. Unstable. Bipolar.
And Camila, ever obsessed with appearances, with pristine reputations and perfect daughters, believed her.
Or maybe she just wanted to.
Calling the police would mean headlines. Scandal. Lawsuits. She couldn't have that. What would Cece think?
So she did the next best thing.
She buried it.
They didn't press charges. They didn't even confront Tom.
They sent Harper to therapy. To 'fix her' - help her cope.
One rainy evening, as thunder cracked across Glenwood and the sky wept in long, silver streaks, the Baldwin estate glowed softly against the storm. The windows flickered with warm light, casting golden rectangles across the dark, rain-slicked driveway. Inside, the Baldwin family sat down for dinner, the clinking of cutlery echoing softly through the chandelier-lit dining room.
Laughter spilled from the kitchen where Harriet stood beside Mariah, she had one hand on a stack of white china plates, the other holding a folded napkin she had attempted to shape into a swan. Her laugh was high and bright—almost too bright—as if trying to punch a hole through the growing gloom outside.
Her phone buzzed sharply on the marble counter, the vibration skimming across the surface.
Harper.
The name lit up the screen like a siren.
Harriet's eyes landed on it, and for a moment, she froze. Her hand hovered over the phone as though it might burn her fingers if she picked it up.
Maria glanced at her. "Aren't you going to get that?"
Harriet's lips tightened into a practiced smile. "It's just Harper." she said casually, slipping the phone face-down. "I'll text her in a minute."
But she didn't.
Dinner was served. Roast chicken with lemon and rosemary. Glazed carrots. Camila praised Maria's seasoning. Thomas read aloud a quote from the paper. Jackson made a sarcastic remark under his breath. Harriet smiled and played along. On the surface, everything looked picture-perfect.
Outside, the rain intensified, rattling against the windows like it wanted to be let in.
Then—three sharp knocks at the front door.
The air in the room shifted.
Camila set her wine glass down slowly, eyes narrowing. Thomas stood, his chair scraping across the floor as he crossed the foyer. The door opened to reveal two police officers standing beneath the porch light, their hats dripping with rain, the silver badges on their jackets dull with moisture.
"Mr. and Mrs. Baldwin?" the taller one asked gently, his voice a low rumble barely audible over the storm. "There's been an incident."
Harriet appeared at the top of the staircase, her hands still damp from rinsing wine glasses, heart hammering against her ribs.
"We received a call from Warren Mental Hospital." the officer continued. "A girl was found earlier this evening near Bayridge Bridge. She was disoriented, covered in blood, and showing signs of hypothermia. We believe it's your daughter—Harper."
Camila gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. Thomas reached out instinctively, steadying her by the elbow.
"She's in surgery now." the officer went on. "A broken leg. Internal bruising. They think... they think she jumped."
There was a long, agonizing pause. Then, in a quieter voice, he added, "She's alive. But... she wasn't trying to be."
The words sliced through the house like a blade.
Camila was already moving, grabbing her coat, calling for Thomas to get the car. Her heels clicked like gunshots against the floor. Neither of them noticed Harriet frozen on the landing, clutching the banister like it was the only thing keeping her upright.
She didn't go with them.
She couldn't.
That night, the house felt impossibly empty. Rain beat down like a drum against the roof. The grandfather clock in the hallway ticked relentlessly, a cruel metronome.
Harriet lay curled on top of her pristine duvet, staring at the phone glowing beside her.
1 missed call – Harper
The time stamp was just before dinner.
Just before she had flipped it over.
Just before she had chosen to laugh instead of listen.
She reached for the phone with trembling hands, the screen's light illuminating her tear-streaked face. Her thumb hovered over Harper's name in her contact list, heart pounding in her ears.
Then, slowly, she exited the call log.
Scrolled further down.
Found his name.
For a long moment, she stared at it—remembering the nights she had defended him, the excuses she had made, the way she told herself Harper was confused, unstable, just looking for attention. Remembering the way Harper had begged her to believe her.
And Harriet broke.
Her sobs came in waves—loud, aching, unrestrained. She curled into herself, choking on her own regret, the pillow beneath her soaking through with tears. All the noise she had buried for weeks—the guilt, the disbelief, the truth—finally tore free from her chest.
People said Harper hated Harriet out of jealousy.
They said she resented the attention, the approval, the effortless way Harriet moved through the world.
But what they didn't know—what they would never know—was that once, Harper had loved her more than anyone. Had idolized her. Had trusted her with everything.
And the one time she needed her the most—
Harriet left her alone in the dark.