He should have known.

There were so many clues. Irene's abrupt coldness starting at eighteen.

Her distant, almost hostile demeanor towards all men.

From that time on, she never wore skirts or short sleeves, always clad in long sleeves and pants, even in the hottest weather.

And then there were her scars.

The knife she always carried. The antidepressants scattered everywhere...

His only sister, sharing the same blood, had started to wither away at eighteen.

When I was eighteen, I called Charles.

I don't know why I called him.

Maybe I still held onto some faint hope, wishing that if he could save me, if he had even a shred...