Penelope's POV

I can't sleep.

The grainy image from the community rink burns behind my eyelids every time I close them. That figure in the stands. The timing. Ten months ago.

"We need to stop obsessing," Lyra says, but her tone lacks conviction.

"Something's wrong." I sit up in bed and grab my laptop again. "I can feel it."

The clock reads 2:47 AM. Practice is in six hours. I should sleep. Instead, I pull up social media and start searching with a purpose now. Not random scrolling. Deliberate ...