The house was quiet, far too quiet for what you now knew. The truth sat in your chest like a stone, heavy enough to crush. You lay in bed staring at the ceiling, but sleep wouldn’t come. The image of Conny’s lifeless body kept flashing behind your eyes.

So you got up.

Your bare feet padded softly against the floor as you slipped down the hall. You weren’t surprised to find Ray already awake, sitting by the window with a book open on his knees. The moonlight cut across his face, outlining the sharp angles of it, but his eyes weren’t on the pages. He was staring at the glass, lost in thought.

“You don’t sleep either?” you asked quietly.

Ray glanced at you, shutting the book without marking the page. “Not much point in it.”

You crossed the room and sat beside him, the wooden floor cold under your legs. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t empty. It was the kind of silence that was almost too loud, filled with the things you both didn’t want to say.

Finally, Ray broke it. “So… you’re really not scared of me?”

The question startled you. “What do you mean?”

He leaned back against the wall, eyes flicking toward you with that detached sharpness. “I knew. For years. About the farm. About what we are. And I didn’t tell anyone. Not Emma, not Norman… not you. You could say I’ve been living with it, playing along with Mom’s little game.” His voice was flat, but under it was something darker. “If you hated me for that, I wouldn’t blame you.”

Your breath caught. He was watching you now, waiting — like the answer mattered more than he’d admit.

You could have said a hundred things. That you were angry. That you didn’t know what to feel. That he was cruel for keeping such a thing from the rest of you.