Chapter 130

Chapter 130:

Margaret’s eyes filled with tears. “Your journals. From when you were a girl. Before… before Rose came.”

The words hit Camille like a physical blow. Her journals. The ones Rose found and read aloud mockingly. The ones that had disappeared after her “accident.”

“You kept them?” Camille couldn’t hide her surprise.

“We found them when we were cleaning out your old room,” Richard explained. “After your… after the news about your car in the river. We couldn’t bear to throw them away.”

Camille looked at the package, still not touching it. “And now you want to return them because you know I’m alive?”

“No.” Margaret shook her head, a tear spilling down her cheek. “We want to return them because we’ve read them. All of them. And we…” Her voice broke completely.

Richard covered his wife’s hand with his own. “We failed you, Camille. In ways we’re only beginning to understand. Your journals, they show a pattern we were too blind to see.”

A server approached, sensing the tension. Camille requested water for the table and said they weren’t ready to order.

When the server left, she reached for the package, unwrapping it with careful fingers. Inside lay five notebooks of different colors and sizes. Her childhood handwriting filled their pages.

“What pattern?” Camille asked, though she already knew.

Margaret wiped her tears. “How Rose manipulated all of us. How we always took her side. How we… punished you for things that weren’t your fault.”

“Read the green one,” Richard said softly. “Page twenty-three.”

Camille hesitated, then opened the small green notebook. Her thirteen-year-old self had written:

Your new favorite stories are at gαℓησν𝒆𝓁s․com

Mom yelled at me again for making Rose feel unwelcome. But I DIDN’T. I asked her to come to the movies with me and Jenna, and she said yes, and then she didn’t show up. And when I got home, she told Mom I left without her on purpose. Why doesn’t Mom ever believe me? Rose smiled when Mom sent me to my room. She SMILED. Like she PLANNED it.

The memory flooded back, waiting in the lobby for Rose, who never came. The sick feeling knowing what would happen when she got home. The helplessness of not being believed.

“There are dozens of entries like that,” Margaret said, her voice hollow with regret. “So many times we took Rose’s word over yours.”

Camille closed the journal. “Why are you showing me this now?”

“Because we owe you the truth,” Richard said. “That we see it now. What Rose did. What we allowed her to do.”

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