Page 2 of Silencing Stolen Whispers
When she needed money, she went to their parents.
When her car broke down, she went to their parents.
And inevitably, Katherine and William Scriven relented and essentially gave Bailey a blank check. She had no understanding of what it meant to take responsibility for herself. No idea how much pressure was on her when every expectation rested on her shoulders.
Additionally, she made really poor choices that affected everyone around her.
“Heaven forbid, the golden child admit to being human,” Bailey said, the words sharp enough to draw blood. “You know what? I'm tired of being your emotional support animal whenever Mom pushes you too hard. I have problems, too, you know. So, figure things out yourself for once.”
That particular phone call had ended abruptly, leaving Hannah even more isolated than before.
She took another long sip of wine, nearly draining the glass. Her mother's voice, always present, always urging:“Excellence isn't optional, Hannah. It's expected.”
Katherine Scriven had clawed her way up from lower-class obscurity to owning her own corporate law firm. She expected no less from her daughter—the one who had chosen to follow in her footsteps.
The pressure was now physical—a tightness in her chest, a nauseous ball in her stomach, and an overwhelming weight on her shoulders.
Hannah stared into her nearly empty glass.
What would it be like to be Bailey for a day?
To simply not care what their mother thought?
To live without the constant drive to prove herself worthy of the Scriven name?
Hannah couldn’t stop her eyes from filling with tears. The least the tears could have done was lessen the sting from staring at her screen for so long, but they couldn’t even do that.She wiped the moisture from her cheeks with the back of her hand, angry at her own weakness.
Despair pressed in around her.
No boyfriend.
No best friend.
A twin sister who wanted nothing to do with her.
And parents who saw her merely as an extension of their legacy rather than as an individual.
Hannah finished what was left of her wine in one final swallow.
The alcohol now hummed in her veins. She ran a finger along the rim of the empty glass, listening to the faint, hollow hum it produced. It was a sound that mirrored the emptiness inside of her.
Until a sharp crack split the night.
Hannah stilled her motions, her gaze quickly lifting to the dark tree line. The piercing snap had been unnaturally loud against the backdrop of what sounded like a thousand crickets.
She carefully set her empty wine glass on the table, as if sudden movements could cause something worse than broken twigs. Dot Whitaker, the owner of the cabin, had warned Hannah about the wildlife nearby—foxes, black bears, and coyotes. Yet the darkness beyond the railing revealed nothing, not even the glow of green or yellow eyes.
Still, the noise must have come from an animal. There weren’t any neighbors for miles, and she was alone out herein the wilderness. The thought should have comforted her, but instead, it did the opposite.
The moonlight, which had been so beautiful moments before, now cast sinister shadows among the trees. The wind had died down, leaving an unnatural stillness that made the hairs on Hannah's neck stand up. She squinted once more, trying to see through the darkness, to give shape to the formless black that seemed to breathe just beyond her vision.
Remember, don't leave food out unless you want company,” Dot had advised after handing over the keys to the cabin. “And the trash goes in the bin with the lock. Bears aren't too common, but they're not unheard of either. Plus, those pesky raccoons can get into just about anything.
The recollection not only calmed her but also made her realize that she had forgotten to secure the lid after taking out the trash today. It didn’t take her long to go back inside and slip into her flats. She then retraced her steps, down the three wooden deck stairs, and around the side of the cabin. The moonlight was bright enough to locate the lock, thread it through the eyehook, and secure the lid enough to prevent it from being opened.
A high-pitched whine near her ear signaled a mosquito's arrival. One landed on her neck, piercing her skin before she could swat it away. Another joined it, then a third, creating a small cloud around her head.
“Damn it,” Hannah muttered, slapping at her neck. Her hand came away with a smear of blood. Her own, mixed with the crushed insect. The wine had made her forget Dot's other warning—dusk brought out the bloodsuckers in July.
