Chapter 2: The Girl Who Died
POV: Isla Prescott
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Darkness.
That's the first thing Isla feels. Complete and total darkness, pressing against her from all sides. It's soft at first, like floating in warm water. There's no pain here. No fear. Just nothing.
Then the voices come.
Muffled at first. Distant. Like echoes underwater, reaching her from very far away.
"...severe trauma to the chest and head..."
"...losing her pulse again..."
"...someone get that stretcher—now!"
Pain explodes through her body.
It hits her all at once, sharp and unbearable. Her chest feels crushed, like something heavy is sitting on it, pressing down, making it impossible to breathe. Her head spins, the world tilting and swaying even though she isn't moving. Every nerve screams. Every bone feels broken.
Isla tries to breathe.
Air scrapes down her throat like broken glass. It burns. Everything burns.
"Stay with us!" someone shouts directly above her. "Stay with us, ma'am! Open your eyes!"
Bright lights flash above her face. They're too bright. They hurt. She tries to turn away, but her body won't move. She can't move anything. She's trapped inside herself, aware but paralyzed.
Rain pours down.
Cold drops hit her face, her open eyes, her lips. She tastes it—water mixed with something else. Something metallic. Something warm.
Blood.
Her blood.
The realization cuts through the fog in her mind.
She's lying on the ground. Wet asphalt presses against her back. Above her, strangers' faces hover in and out of focus. A woman with dark hair and terrified eyes. A man pressing something against her chest. Another man shouting into a radio.
"Pulse is weak! Too weak!"
"The ambulance is two minutes out! Tell them two minutes!"
"She's not responding!"
"Ma'am! Ma'am, can you hear me?"
Isla's eyes flutter open.
The world tilts sideways.
Streetlights glow above her like halos in the rain, their reflections shimmering in the water pooling on the ground. Everything looks surreal, dreamlike, wrong. She blinks slowly, trying to understand.
Then she sees it.
Dark red spreading across the pavement beneath her. Mixing with rainwater. Creeping outward in slow, terrible rivers.
Her blood.
So much blood.
A choking sound escapes her throat. It's not a word, not a cry, just a broken noise of pure animal fear.
Someone grabs her hand. A paramedic. Young, with wet hair plastered to his forehead. His eyes are wide but focused.
"Ma'am, look at me. Look at me, okay? You're going to be fine. Just stay with me."
She wants to believe him.
She wants to nod, to squeeze his hand, to fight.
But her body won't cooperate.
And then the memories come.
Braxton.
The name appears in her mind like a fading whisper, soft at first. Then sharper. Clearer. His face swims into view behind her eyes. The way he looked at her in that bedroom. Not guilty. Not sorry. Just annoyed.
Isla, you shouldn't be here.
She sees it again. The sheets tangled around his waist. The bare skin. The way he didn't even try to explain.
Then Alexia's laughter follows.
The sound echoes in her skull, cruel and satisfied. Her stepsister's blonde hair. Her red lips curved in that smile. The one she wears every time she hurts Isla. Every time she wins.
Well, look who finally showed up.
The memory hits her harder than the truck did.
The bedroom door. The warm light. The two of them together, like Isla was nothing. Like she never mattered at all.
He's in my bed because he wants to be.
Her chest tightens painfully. Not from the injury this time. From something worse. Something inside her breaking all over again.
Tears mix with rain as they slide down her temples, disappearing into her hair, into the blood, into the water.
So this is how it ends.
Twenty-three years of being quiet.
Of trying to be good.
Of believing that if she loved someone enough... they would love her back.
Twenty-three years of hoping, and this is what hope gets her. Lying on cold asphalt, bleeding out while strangers watch.
How stupid.
How painfully, pathetically stupid.
The paramedic leans closer, his face tense with effort. He's pressing something against her chest. Hard. It hurts.
"Ma'am, can you hear me? Squeeze my hand if you can hear me!"
Isla tries to speak.
Her lips move, but no sound comes out. Just a breath. A whisper of air.
Her body feels cold.
So cold.
The rain keeps falling, each drop like ice against her skin. She can't feel her legs anymore. Can't feel her arms. Just the cold. Just the darkness creeping in at the edges of her vision.
"She's crashing!" someone shouts.
"No, no, no—stay with me!"
The voices around her begin to fade, growing distant like someone is turning down the volume on the world.
"...she's crashing hard..."
"...we're losing her, we're losing her!"
"...get the paddles ready—clear!"
A sharp jolt runs through her chest.
Her body jerks violently, head falling back, limbs twitching without her control.
For one moment, her heart beats again.
One strong, painful beat.
Then it stumbles.
Slows.
The paramedic's voice reaches her one last time.
"Come on. Come on, don't do this. Stay with us."
Isla wants to answer.
She wants to fight.
But she's so tired.
So very tired.
Everything slows.
The rain softens, no longer stinging her skin. The lights above dim, fading from bright white to soft yellow to nothing. The voices become whispers, then silence.
And Isla feels something strange.
Peace.
Real, complete, total peace.
Her pain disappears, melting away like morning mist. The crushing weight on her chest lifts. The burning in her throat fades. She can breathe again, but she doesn't need to. She doesn't need anything.
Her body goes still.
Her eyes, still open, stare at the dark sky above. Raindrops fall into them, but she doesn't blink. Doesn't feel them. Doesn't move.
The paramedic checks her pulse.
Once.
Twice.
He looks up at the others and slowly shakes his head.
"Time of death..." He glances at his watch. His voice cracks slightly. "11:47 p.m."
Someone sighs. Someone else starts packing equipment. The rain keeps falling, washing blood from the street, carrying it into the gutters where it disappears forever.
Isla Prescott is dead.
But she doesn't know that anymore.
Because in that final moment, as her heart stopped and her lungs emptied, something unexpected happened.
Not darkness.
Not nothing.
A voice.
Soft at first. Then clearer. A woman's voice, warm and familiar in a way that makes something deep inside her ache.
Isla.
She knows that voice.
She's heard it before, long ago, in dreams she couldn't quite remember.
My baby. My sweet girl.
Mom?
You can't stay here. It's not your time.
But I'm tired. I'm so tired.
I know, baby. I know. But you have to go back.
I don't want to. It hurts. Everything hurts.
I know it does. I know. A pause. Warmth surrounds her, like arms embracing her. But there's someone waiting for you. Someone you haven't met yet. And there are things you need to do. People who need to answer for what they did.
What things?
You'll see. But first, you have to wake up.
I don't know how.
Yes, you do. You're stronger than you think, Isla. Stronger than any of them. You always were. Now wake up.
The warmth fades.
The voice fades.
And somewhere, impossibly, Isla feels her heart stir.
One beat.
Then another.
Then nothing.
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Three Months Later
Bangkok, Thailand
Light.
That's the first thing Isla feels this time.
Bright, painful light pressing against her closed eyelids. She tries to turn away from it, but her body won't move. Too heavy. Too weak.
Sounds come next.
Not voices this time. Different sounds. Birds singing somewhere nearby. The hum of a fan spinning overhead. Distant traffic, but not the traffic she remembers. Different horns. Different rhythms.
Where am I?
She forces her eyes open.
The ceiling above her is white. Plain. A ceiling fan rotates slowly, pushing warm air through the room. The walls are pale yellow. Sunlight streams through sheer curtains, casting soft shadows on the floor.
This isn't her room.
This isn't New York.
Panic flickers in her chest. She tries to sit up, but pain shoots through her body and she falls back against the pillows with a gasp.
The door opens.
An older woman enters, plump and kind-faced, with gray-streaked hair pulled back in a bun. She's carrying a tray with a bowl of something steaming.
When she sees Isla's open eyes, she freezes.
Then she smiles.
"Ah," she says in accented English. "You wake. Finally, you wake."
Isla stares at her, confused.
"Where..." Her voice is a rasp. Barely there. "Where am I?"
The woman sets the tray down and approaches the bed slowly, like she's afraid Isla will disappear.
"You are in Bangkok, child. Bangkok, Thailand."
Isla blinks.
Thailand?
How?
The woman sits on the edge of the bed, her eyes soft with concern. "My husband find you three months ago. By the river. You were hurt very bad. No identification. Nothing. We bring you to hospital. They say maybe you don't wake up. But I tell them, she will wake. I pray every day. And look." She smiles warmly. "You wake."
Three months.
Three months have passed?
Isla's mind spins, trying to grasp what this means. Three months of her family thinking she's dead. Three months of—
The memories crash into her.
The bedroom.
Braxton.
Alexia.
The truck.
The rain.
The blood.
Her breath catches. Tears spring to her eyes before she can stop them.
The woman's face softens with understanding. She doesn't ask questions. Doesn't push. Just takes Isla's hand and holds it gently.
"Rest now," she says quietly. "You're safe here. You rest. When you are ready, you tell me your name. When you are ready, you tell me what happened. But first, you rest."
Isla wants to thank her.
But exhaustion pulls at her again, heavy and insistent.
Her eyes close.
The last thing she hears before sleep takes her is the woman's soft voice, humming a lullaby she almost recognizes.
And somewhere deep inside, a voice whispers.
Wake up, Isla. There's work to do.
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