She was alive.

My sister.

The one I’d buried in memory, mourned in pieces, and chased in the shadows.

She. Was. Alive.

I stared at the phone like it might burn a hole through my palm. But the message had ended. The voice was gone. All that remained was the silence and the echo of her calling me “little flame.”

Jaxon was watching me.

Waiting for the emotional collapse that hadn’t come yet.

But I didn’t collapse.

I lit up.

“She’s behind this,” I said. “She knew ...