ONE HUNDRED AND FOURTEEN.

I stir in my sleep, tossing and turning in the sheets as I pry my eyes open.

The room is dimly lit with the lavish curtains pulled shut as a glimmer of light peeks through the tiny slit where the curtains join.

I roll onto my back, looking up at the ceiling, brushing a hand over my face, and then rubbing my sleepy eyes.

Taking a moment to reflect on yesterday's events, everything quickly comes crashing back to me.

Aunt Mae is dead. She is gone, never coming back, and I'll never get to see her face or hear her sweet voice that could soothe the fire burning through my veins when I'd have my dark days.

Then there is Joel Thompson.

He is responsible for Aunt Maes’ death. He, too, is most likely dead.

And in all honesty, I don't feel a thing.

I feel numb with a strong desire, hoping that Alessandro made him suffer like he has made me suffer all these years.

Sighing, I take a moment to reflect on the conversation Alessandro and I had as he held me in his arms until we both fell into