The photo stayed in her hands long after Xander had gone silent.
Aria sat on the edge of her bed, the Polaroid turning damp from the sweat on her fingertips. The room was dark, lit only by the city lights bleeding through her window. She hadn't turned on the lamp. Didn't need to. The photo provided enough electricity on its own.
It was Amara, standing in the ruined greenhouse, half-lit, eyes wide—not with fear, exactly, but with something sharp. Alert. Expecting something—or someone.
And behind her, just out of focus, was that unmistakable outline.
Shoulders too broad to mistake.
Stance too familiar to deny.
Xander.
She swallowed hard.
It felt like betrayal, but it didn't make sense. If he'd been part of Amara's disappearance… why help now? Why lead her to that wall, those notes, the truth?
The questions tangled in her chest until her phone buzzed beside her.
A blocked number.
She hesitated, thumb hovering over the answer button, heart pounding.
Then she picked up.
"Hello?"
A pause. Then static. A voice came through—strained, distant, almost drowned out by a hissing noise.
"Don't trust him."
The voice was female. Familiar. Wounded.
Her spine stiffened. "Amara?"
More static.
Then: click.
The line went dead.
Aria sat frozen, staring at the phone like it might catch fire.
She called back. Nothing.
Again. Voicemail.
She dropped the phone, breath shallow. Everything inside her screamed for answers—but fear curled up beside it like an old friend.
Could it really have been Amara?
And if it was… why warn her against Xander?
Was the photo proof?
Or a distraction?
She didn't sleep that night.