MY FULL NAME is Cadence Sinclair Eastman.
I suffer migraines. I do not suffer fools.
I like a twist of meaning.
I endure.
My eyes open slowly, mechanically to a flurry of blinding light, and to a room which smells too clean. A room which feels too barren.
I feebly ease myself off the bed. My fingers coil against the cold mattress and lift my body into an upright position.
The walls are the color of bone and are void of any decoration. The floor is smooth and gray, like polished stone. No items reside on the ground except the cot. The room holds no memories, or even echoes, of anyone who inhabited it in the past.
For once, I sense no hovering presence. No mum. No Johnny, no Mirren, no Gat.
No ghosts.
Nothing. Only the shallow sounds of air escaping my mouth.
A pang of loneliness and shame punctures my body. I instinctively clench my hands.
I search for the words on my hands from left to right. Be a little, on my left, and Kinder, on my right. For a touch of Mirren. For a touch of sugar, curiosity, and rain.
But my hands are bare.
No smudges are left from the ink of the Sharpie.
My hands are as blank as paper.
Mirren's voice fades away into a crescendo of ghosts.
The Liars accuse me of murder.
Of tragedy.
Of despair.
For my blonde Sinclair hair, my selfish spirit.
I instinctively touch the coarse ends of my hair, the parts that are chestnut brown, still slightly un-Sinclair. I hold the strands up to my eyes.
My teeth grinds away bone in silent mortification. The strands are a pale golden yellow. I look at the blonde hair on my arms.
Sinclair. Sinclair. Sinclair.
The door softly creaks open. Stale and sweet air wafts into the room.
A girl with long, honey blonde hair walks in. I tense, anticipating Carrie, Bess, or mum.
Not for the familiar eyes and square Sinclair chin set into her sweet face.
"Mirren," I gasp in astonishment.
A boy with yellow cropped hair pops his head into the room. His eyes gleam in excitement.
He is bounce, effort, and snark. He dreams of marathons and Lego tuna fish taxidermied on a wall.
"Johnny," I breathe.
Wings sprout from my body, flying me into the arms of Johnny and Mirren. Bright feathers bloom around my eyes, my heart. They tickle and caress my wet, salty cheeks. Provide warmth for my heart. The ice surrounding me cracks and melts in pools on the frigid ground.
Johnny and Mirren comforting me. Me, clutching them with a grip of steel. Afraid to let go for fear of hugging a memory.
The salty and sweet scent of beach roses pierces my steel. My throat throbs and my lip quivers. The aroma of chocolate and strong coffee.
I tear through Johnny and Mirren's embrace and pounce on Gat, slamming my lips against his. Gat, my Gat. Ambition, contemplation, enthusiasm, intelligence. Beautiful Gat.
The bouquet of beach roses crashes to the floor in a whirl of petals outside the room when Gat wraps his arms around my shoulders. He hugs me not without a large amount of passion and affection.
"They thought they'd lose you," he croaks and ducks his face into my blonde hair. The top of my head shines with clear, wet jewels as Gat's tears stream down his face.
"After Harris started the fire in Clairmont, a-and you charged in," he chokes out, "The firefighters found you collapsed in the mudroom next to Prince Phillip and Fatima. You were so still. Almost as if you were dead," Gat's voice fractures with pain. Gat gently pulls me away from him and gazes at me like I am a girl made of porcelain, ready to break. "The firefighters had said you were trying to save the dogs. That you had told them you had failed to save a life, so you had to save theirs' at least,"
Clouds clog my mind. Granddad starting a fire in Clairmont? Me saving Grandma Tipper's dogs? Me ending up here?
"What happened to me?" I ask, my voice hoarse. My eyes veer from Gat to Johnny to Mirren.
"You were in a coma for two years," pipes Johnny, "Your mum paid for the treatment,"
"Don't be so offhand about it," Mirren snaps in annoyance.
"And Granddad?"
"He... died in the fire," Gat remarks gravely, "The remaining Sinclairs don't mention it, but I believe they know that Harris meant to perish in that fire. He was still unstable from Tipper's death,"
Mirren and Johnny's eyes sullenly cast down to the floor. "At least our moms aren't fighting for Granddad's money anymore," Johnny murmurs. "He gave each of our families an equal portion of inheritance in the form of money and property. His will stated that the inheritance would be rebuked if anyone tried to violate the others' abilities to have and use it,"
"So far," he sighs, "There have been no big feuds," A tired half-smile rests on Johnny's face. He radiates tragedy and optimism.
Granddad, the patriarch of the Sinclairs, is dead? My mind stumbles in the face of the information. Waves of sadness, grief, and hope flood my brain.
Mirren touches my arm and slowly raises her head from the floor. "We forgot to tell you," she says, her sugary voice changing the somber atmosphere. A small smile curves the corner of her mouth.
"We all go to colleges in the same area. Me, Johnny, and Gat moved out of our old houses. We were on our way to a house we purchased some distance away from here when we stopped to visit you at the treatment center,"
She grins, "There's a guest room if you want to stay."
My heart flutters and swells in my chest.
I am no longer a caged Sinclair. I am Cadence. I am a survivor,
a saviour,
a friend,
and this is enough.
Everything right now, in this moment, is enough.
"Let's check out of here," I declare.
Gat kisses my cheek and Mirren and Johnny hug me.
My body trembles with happiness and exhilaration.
I have not lost my Liars, our journey has only begun.