The file was named: BETHANY_02.MP4 .
"I'm doing something," Bethany continued. "Something that needs to be recorded. Not for evidence. For… I don't know. A receipt. Proof that I chose this."
"Take two," Bethany said softly. Her voice was steady, almost amused. "I messed up the first one. Said 'um' too much."
She paused at the door, looking back at the dark screen of her laptop.
"So maybe the MP4 isn't evidence. Maybe it's the door."
"Bethany 02," she murmured. "Take three. I'm coming in."
But the textile mill had been searched. Twice. No basement door. No brass key. No Bethany.
She turned the key over in her fingers. The rain against the window seemed to grow louder.
Mara's throat tightened. She'd watched long enough to memorize Bethany's micro-expressions: the slight tremor in her lower lip before she said something true, the way her left hand always touched her collarbone when she was scared.
Bethany touched her collarbone now.
Felix knocked and pushed the door open. "Still watching her?"
Felix was quiet. Then: "You're scaring me, Mara."
Bethany sat in a wooden chair, back straight, hands folded on her lap. The room behind her was bare—pale yellow wallpaper, a single window with rain streaking down. She wore a gray sweater, her dark hair pulled into a loose ponytail. On the table beside her: a glass of water, untouched.
The file was named: BETHANY_02.MP4 .
"I'm doing something," Bethany continued. "Something that needs to be recorded. Not for evidence. For… I don't know. A receipt. Proof that I chose this."
"Take two," Bethany said softly. Her voice was steady, almost amused. "I messed up the first one. Said 'um' too much."
She paused at the door, looking back at the dark screen of her laptop.
"So maybe the MP4 isn't evidence. Maybe it's the door."
"Bethany 02," she murmured. "Take three. I'm coming in."
But the textile mill had been searched. Twice. No basement door. No brass key. No Bethany.
She turned the key over in her fingers. The rain against the window seemed to grow louder.
Mara's throat tightened. She'd watched long enough to memorize Bethany's micro-expressions: the slight tremor in her lower lip before she said something true, the way her left hand always touched her collarbone when she was scared.
Bethany touched her collarbone now.
Felix knocked and pushed the door open. "Still watching her?"
Felix was quiet. Then: "You're scaring me, Mara."
Bethany sat in a wooden chair, back straight, hands folded on her lap. The room behind her was bare—pale yellow wallpaper, a single window with rain streaking down. She wore a gray sweater, her dark hair pulled into a loose ponytail. On the table beside her: a glass of water, untouched.
