Part 2
“You look different,” she said, voice softer now. “Older.”
“I feel it,” I replied.
Her eyes stayed on mine a second longer than they needed to.
Then she looked back down at the box.
“College do that to you?”
“College. Work. Bad coffee. Worse decisions.”
That made her laugh.
It was strange hearing it from this close.
When Jake and I were kids, his sister had always seemed like someone who existed just outside our world.
She was three years older.
When we were thirteen, that might as well have been thirty.
She drove before us.
Went to parties before us.
Graduated while we were still trying to survive sophomore year.
I remembered thinking she was impossibly grown-up.
Then I left for college, spent three years convincing myself I had become an adult, and somehow came back to find the age between us had practically disappeared.
She pulled another photograph from the box.
Her smile vanished.
I noticed immediately.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
She started putting the photograph back.
“That’s not nothing.”
She paused.
Then she handed it to me.
It was old.
Maybe eight years old.
Jake and I were standing in this very room.
He was holding a video-game controller.
I was laughing at something outside the frame.
And behind us, barely visible near the doorway, was her.
She looked seventeen or eighteen.
Glasses.
Hair pulled back.
Arms folded.
Except she wasn’t looking at the camera.
She was looking at me.
I glanced up.
She was already watching my reaction.
“You kept this?”
Her expression changed.
“It’s my photograph.”
“Technically, sure.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean.”
She reached for it.
I held it away.
“Give it back.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re annoying.”
“You invited me into your room.”
“I am reconsidering that decision.”
I laughed.
She leaned farther forward, trying to take the photograph.
“Seriously.”
“So you were staring at me.”
“I was probably wondering why my brother had invited the loudest human being in Illinois into our house again.”
“That’s not what your face says.”
Her fingers stopped inches from mine.
For a moment neither of us moved.
Then she sat back.
“That confident now?”
“Not usually.”
“What changed?”
I shrugged.
“Maybe I realized you make it pretty easy.”
Her eyes narrowed.
But there was something behind the expression.
Amusement.
Maybe surprise.
Maybe something else.
“You were terrified of me when you were sixteen.”
“I wasn’t terrified.”
“You once walked directly into the laundry-room door because I said hello to you.”
“That door shouldn’t have been closed.”
“It was wide open.”
I stared at her.
She smiled.
“I remember things too.”
That caught me off guard.
More than it should have.
She took the photograph back and placed it carefully inside the box.
Then she closed the lid.
Conversation over.
At least that part of it.
She stood and carried the box toward the closet.
That’s when she suddenly stopped.
Her hand went to her shoulder.
A sharp breath escaped her.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”
But she didn’t sound okay.
She tried lifting her arm and immediately winced.
I stood.
“What happened?”
“It’s stupid.”
“Usually when someone says that, it isn’t.”
She rolled her eyes.
“I fell.”
“When?”
“Two days ago.”
“How?”
“Bathroom.”
I laughed before I could stop myself.
Her head snapped toward me.
“Really?”
“Sorry.”
“You’re a terrible person.”
“I said sorry.”
“You laughed while saying it.”
“You falling in the bathroom caught me off guard.”
She smiled despite herself.
“I slipped getting out of the shower.”
“That’s less funny.”
“It wasn’t particularly entertaining from my angle.”
She tried rotating her shoulder again.
Her face tightened.
“You should get that checked.”
“I did.”
“And?”
“Bruised. Maybe a strained muscle.”
“Maybe?”
“The urgent care doctor said if it gets worse, come back.”
She pulled lightly at the collar of her hoodie.
“I can’t tell if the swelling’s gone down.”
I immediately understood what she meant.
Or thought I did.
She looked toward the mirror mounted beside the closet.
Then back at me.
“You’re going to make this weird, aren’t you?”
“What?”
“You already look terrified.”
“I don’t look terrified.”
“You absolutely do.”
She walked toward the bedroom door.
For half a second I thought she was leaving.
Instead she put her hand on the knob.
Then glanced at me.
“Close the door first.”
Every intelligent thought in my head disappeared.
“What?”
She laughed once.
“Oh my God. Your face.”
“My face is fine.”
“Your face looks like you’ve just been informed you’re under federal investigation.”
She pushed the door gently until it clicked shut.
Then she walked back toward the mirror.
And slowly pulled the hoodie over her head.
I looked away almost immediately.
She was wearing a black athletic tank top underneath.
Nothing dramatic.
Nothing inappropriate.
Yet my heart reacted as if somebody had fired a starting pistol.
“Relax,” she said.
“I am relaxed.”
“You’re staring at the wall.”
“Very relaxing wall.”
She turned slightly toward the mirror.
There was a large purple bruise along the back of her right shoulder, reaching toward her upper arm.
The joking disappeared.
“Damn.”
“Exactly.”
“That looks bad.”
“Does it look worse than yesterday?”
“How would I know?”
She gave me a look through the mirror.
“Right.”
She tried to twist around enough to see it.
Couldn’t.
“Take a picture.”
I stared at her.
“With my phone?”
“No, draw it from memory.”
“Okay, okay.”
I took out my phone.
“Just the shoulder.”
“Yes, professor.”
She pulled her hair out of the way.
I took a photograph.
When I handed the phone to her, she studied it.
Her forehead tightened.
“It is worse.”
“You need to go back.”
“Probably.”
“Not probably.”
She looked at me.
Something about the moment had changed.
The playful energy was still there, but thinner now.
She put the hoodie back on carefully.
This time I noticed how she struggled getting her arm through the sleeve.
“You live here alone?”
“Mostly.”
“Mostly?”
“Jake technically has a room here. He’s just never home.”
“What about your parents?”
“Arizona.”
“I heard they moved. I didn’t know you stayed.”
“I had reasons.”
The way she said it made me sit down again.
“What reasons?”
She didn’t answer immediately.
Instead she walked to the window.
Outside, late afternoon light stretched across the street where we’d spent half our childhood riding bicycles and throwing footballs at mailboxes.
“My engagement ended.”
That was the last thing I expected.
“You were engaged?”
She nodded.
“Almost.”
“Almost engaged?”
“No. Almost married.”
I said nothing.
She laughed without humor.
“Jake didn’t tell you?”
“No.”
“Of course he didn’t.”
“When?”
“Last year.”
She stared outside.
“Wedding was supposed to be in September.”
“What happened?”
She rubbed the sleeve over her wrist.
“He changed his mind.”
“Just like that?”
“No.”
She hesitated.
“He had help.”
There was bitterness now.
“He was sleeping with someone from his office.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah.”
“For how long?”
“Six months that I know of.”
I felt anger rise in me toward a man I’d never met.
“I’m sorry.”
She shrugged.
“Everyone says that.”
“What am I supposed to say?”
“I don’t know.”
She turned around.
“Maybe that’s why I like talking to you.”
“Because I’m bad at comforting people?”
“Because you don’t know anything.”
“That sounded insulting.”
“It wasn’t.”
She sat on the edge of the bed.
“You weren’t here when everyone knew me as the woman whose fiancé cheated on her.”
Her voice had lowered.
“You don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m fragile.”
I thought about the shoulder.
The empty house.
The box of memories.
How comfortable she’d seemed when I arrived.
And how much of that might have been performance.
“I don’t think you’re fragile.”
“No?”
“No.”
“What do you think?”
Dangerous question.
I leaned back in the chair.
“I think you pour terrible tea.”
She stared at me.
Then she smiled.
“That all?”
“I think you remember way too much about me.”
Her smile faded slightly.
“And?”
“And I think you’re trying very hard to convince everyone you’re completely fine.”
Silence.
For the first time since I’d arrived, she looked away first.
“Well.”
She breathed out.
“College made you observant.”
“My psychology elective was at eight in the morning. I learned nothing.”
She laughed.
It rescued us both.
Then we heard the front door downstairs.
Her expression changed instantly.
“Jake?”
A second later came the unmistakable sound of keys hitting the entryway table.
Then footsteps.
“Hello?”
Jake’s voice.
We looked at each other.
For some reason, being alone upstairs suddenly felt suspicious, despite the fact that absolutely nothing had happened.
She noticed it too.
Her mouth curled upward.
“Now you look guilty.”
“Why would I be guilty?”
“Exactly.”
Jake shouted my name from downstairs.
I stood.
She grabbed my wrist.
It wasn’t forceful.
But it stopped me.
“Wait.”
I looked down at her hand.
Then at her.
Something serious had returned to her face.
“Don’t tell him.”
“About what?”
“My shoulder.”
I frowned.
“Why?”
“Because he’ll overreact.”
“Maybe somebody should.”
“Please.”
Her hand was still around my wrist.
“Fine.”
“And don’t tell him about the engagement conversation.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
She released me.
I took one step toward the door.
Then she spoke again.
“And don’t tell him about the picture.”
I turned.
“Which one?”
She threw a pillow at me.
I caught it, laughing.
“Get out.”
I opened the door.
Jake was halfway up the stairs.
He froze when he saw me stepping out of his sister’s bedroom.
Then his eyes moved past me.
To her.
To the closed-looking box on her bed.
Back to me.
There are moments when you can physically watch someone’s mind begin assembling the wrong story.
This was one of them.
“Why are you in there?”
I opened my mouth.
His sister answered first.
“Because unlike you, I know how to entertain guests.”
Jake looked at me.
“You’ve been here the whole time?”
“Like forty minutes.”
“An hour and twelve,” she corrected.
I stared at her.
Jake stared at me harder.
“An hour and twelve?”
“She made tea.”
His expression somehow became more suspicious.
“Tea?”
She folded her arms.
“Yes, Jake. Tea. The gateway drug.”
He looked between us.
Then laughed.
“Whatever. Come on. I got food.”
I followed him downstairs.
But halfway down, I looked back.
She was standing at the top of the stairs.
Watching me.
Again.
Exactly like the girl in that old photograph.
Except this time, when our eyes met, she didn’t look away.
Dinner should have made everything normal again.
It didn’t.
Jake had brought burgers from the place near the highway.
We ate in the living room while some basketball game played on television.
He talked almost continuously.
Work.
His manager.
A girl he’d been texting.
Some argument between two people I vaguely remembered from high school.
His sister joined us fifteen minutes later.
Now she had changed into a loose gray sweatshirt.
She sat in the chair across from us with one leg tucked beneath her.
Every few minutes, our eyes met.
Nothing obvious.
Nothing Jake could call out.
But enough.
I started wondering if I was imagining it.
Then Jake went to the kitchen.
She immediately leaned forward.
“You didn’t tell him?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“You don’t trust your brother much.”
“I trust him.”
She looked toward the kitchen.
“I don’t trust his volume.”
I laughed.
Jake shouted from the other room.
“What are you two talking about?”
She didn’t miss a beat.
“Your personality defects.”
“Screw you.”
“You asked.”
She smiled at me.
That smile stayed in my head longer than it should have.
Around nine, Jake got a call.
His manager.
Someone hadn’t shown up for a shift.
He spent five minutes arguing.
Then came back looking annoyed.
“I gotta go.”
“You just got here,” I said.
“Welcome to adulthood.”
He grabbed his jacket.
“You staying?”
I glanced toward his sister.
She was looking at the television.
Too deliberately.
“I can head out.”
Jake shrugged.
“You can stay. I’ll probably be back by eleven.”
Then he looked at his sister.
“Don’t murder him.”
She didn’t look away from the screen.
“No promises.”
Jake left.
The front door shut.
Silence returned.
This time it wasn’t natural.
I stood.
“I probably should go.”
She finally looked at me.
“Why?”
The question was simple.
The way she asked it wasn’t.
“It’s late.”
“It’s nine-oh-six.”
“You keeping time again?”
“Maybe.”
She stood.
The television continued flickering across the darkened room.
“Stay for one more cup of terrible tea.”
I should have said no.
Instead, ten minutes later, we were back in the kitchen.
She didn’t make tea.
She poured two glasses of water and leaned against the counter.
“So.”
“So.”
“You dating anyone?”
There it was.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“That’s usually considered a complicated question.”
“You brought up my failed wedding. We’re past small talk.”
“Fair.”
I rotated the glass between my hands.
“There was someone.”
“What happened?”
“We wanted different things.”
“That sounds suspiciously mature.”
“It was not handled maturely.”
“Did you cheat?”
“No.”
“Did she?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
I looked down.
“I think I kept waiting to feel what I thought I was supposed to feel.”
She studied me.
“And you didn’t?”
“No.”
“That’s worse sometimes.”
I looked up.
She understood immediately.
“Yeah.”
I said quietly.
“It is.”
Neither of us spoke.
Then she walked around the island.
Stopped beside me.
Close.
Not touching.
Just close enough to make me aware of every inch between us.
“You know what’s funny?”
“What?”
“When you were younger, I thought you had everything figured out.”
I almost choked.
“You thought that?”
“You were always loud. Confident.”
“I was pretending.”
“I know that now.”
“What else did you think?”
She smiled.
“You really want to know?”
“Probably not.”
“You had the worst haircut in the entire county.”
“Okay. Conversation over.”
She laughed.
“And you were always following Jake around.”
“We were best friends.”
“I know.”
She looked at me again.
“But sometimes you came over when he wasn’t even home yet.”
My stomach tightened.
“I did?”
“All the time.”
“I don’t remember that.”
“I do.”
“Why?”
Her expression softened.
“Because I used to wonder if maybe you knew exactly when he wouldn’t be home.”
That wiped the smile off my face.
The refrigerator hummed behind us.
Outside, a car passed slowly down the street.
I forced a laugh.
“That would suggest I had some kind of plan.”
“Maybe you did.”
“I was sixteen.”
“Seventeen, mostly.”
“You really remember.”
“Yeah.”
Her answer was barely above a whisper.
I realized then that all afternoon she’d been doing something neither of us had named.
Opening doors.
Not bedroom doors.
Old ones.
Memories.
Things we had ignored because the timing had been wrong.
Because I had been Jake’s annoying younger friend.
Because she was his older sister.
Because three years once felt enormous.
And now it didn’t.
“Why didn’t you ever say anything?”
She looked genuinely surprised.
“Would you have survived it?”
I laughed softly.
“Probably not.”
“Exactly.”
She moved away.
The moment broke.
Maybe intentionally.
She took my empty glass.
“I should clean up.”
“I can help.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re a guest.”
“You made me sort through an emotional archaeological site upstairs.”
“And you were terrible at it.”
I grabbed a dish towel anyway.
We worked in silence for a few minutes.
Then her phone buzzed.
She checked it.
Her face changed.
Not dramatically.
But enough.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
There was that word again.
Nothing.
She set the phone facedown.
“Doesn’t look like nothing.”
She stared at it.
Then finally pushed it toward me.
The message preview was visible.
Daniel: We need to talk. I know you’re home.
I looked at her.
“Your ex?”
She nodded.
Another message appeared.
Please don’t ignore me again.
Then another.
I’m outside.
Her face drained of color.
I turned toward the front windows.
Headlights swept across the curtains.
A car had just pulled into the driveway.
She whispered one word.
“Damn.”
Then someone knocked on the front door.
Not politely.
Three hard knocks.
I looked at her.
“Want me to leave?”
Her eyes snapped toward mine.
“No.”
Another knock.
Harder.
Then a man’s voice from outside.
“Emily?”
That was the first time all evening I’d heard her name spoken aloud.
Emily looked toward the door.
Then back at me.
And suddenly every trace of teasing disappeared.
“Actually,” she said quietly, “I need you to stay.”
Part 3
Daniel knocked again.
“Emily, I know you’re in there.”
I watched her shoulders tense.
That alone told me more than anything she’d said.
“Did you invite him?”
“No.”
“Does he do this often?”
She didn’t answer.
Which was an answer.
I stepped toward the entryway.
Emily caught my arm.
“Don’t.”
“He’s pounding on your door.”
“And confronting him won’t help.”
“So what do you want to do?”
She stared at the door.
Another knock.
Then silence.
For a few seconds, neither of us moved.
Daniel’s voice came again.
Softer this time.
“Emily, please.”
She closed her eyes.
That “please” seemed worse than the knocking.
Not angry.
Familiar.
Carefully practiced.
“I’ll talk to him,” she said.
“No.”
Her eyes opened.
“No?”
“You told me not to go.”
“I meant stay in the house.”
“Exactly.”
She almost smiled.
Almost.
Then she walked to the door.
Before opening it, she turned the deadbolt but kept the chain secured.
The door opened several inches.
I stayed far enough back that Daniel probably couldn’t see me.
“Why are you here?” she asked.
His voice immediately changed.
Warm.
Reasonable.
Like the knocking hadn’t happened.
“I’ve been calling.”
“I blocked you.”
“I noticed.”
“That’s usually a clue.”
“Emily.”
“What?”
“We need to finish this like adults.”
“We finished it eleven months ago.”
“No. You ran.”
Her jaw tightened.
“You were sleeping with Caroline.”
“That isn’t what I’m talking about.”
“What else is there?”
A pause.
Then Daniel lowered his voice.
“Your father called me.”
Emily went still.
I couldn’t see Daniel, but I saw the effect of those four words.
“What?”
“He’s worried about you.”
“My father hasn’t spoken to you in months.”
“He called Tuesday.”
“Why?”
“Because Jake told him you got hurt.”
Her eyes widened.
I remembered the bruise.
The bathroom fall.
The request not to tell Jake.
Suddenly that request had new meaning.
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“You can’t even see me.”
“I know you.”
“No.”
Her voice sharpened.
“You knew me.”
Silence.
Then Daniel exhaled.
“Can you open the door?”
“No.”
“I came two hours.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“Emily.”
“No.”
He went quiet.
Then:
“Is somebody there?”
Her eyes moved toward me.
Damn.
I stepped farther out of sight.
“No.”
“Your car’s here. Jake’s car isn’t.”
“Good observational skills.”
“I saw another car.”
Emily said nothing.
Daniel’s tone changed.
Only slightly.
But enough.
“Who is it?”
“None of your business.”
“Are you seeing somebody?”
She laughed.
But there was no humor in it.
“You drove here uninvited after almost a year and you’re asking who I’m seeing?”
“That’s not an answer.”
“You don’t deserve one.”
“Emily—”
She started closing the door.
He put his hand against it.
I saw the door stop.
Every muscle in my body tightened.
“Take your hand off the door,” she said.
He didn’t.
I stepped forward.
“Hey.”
Daniel froze.
Emily looked at me.
Then the pressure against the door disappeared.
I moved beside her.
Through the narrow opening, I finally saw him.
Tall.
Expensive coat.
Perfect hair.
The kind of man who looked prepared for every photograph ever taken of him.
His eyes moved from me to Emily.
Then back.
“Who’s this?”
I almost laughed.
Emily didn’t.
“He’s Jake’s friend.”
Recognition appeared.
“Oh.”
He knew.
Or at least knew of me.
“You’re the college kid.”
Something about the phrase irritated me.
“Not much of a kid anymore.”
Daniel studied me.
Then looked at Emily.
“You’re kidding.”
“Go home, Daniel.”
“Emily, seriously?”
“Go.”
“You bring your brother’s little friend here and—”
“This is my house.”
He stopped.
She continued.
“My house.”
Each word became stronger.
“You don’t get to show up.
You don’t get to knock until I answer.
You don’t get to question who is inside.
And you definitely don’t get to put your hand on my door.”
Daniel’s jaw flexed.
For the first time, I saw what existed underneath the polished surface.
Anger.
Not explosive.
Controlled.
Maybe that was worse.
“I came because your family is worried.”
“My family knows how to call.”
“They also know you don’t answer.”
“Then maybe they should ask why.”
Daniel stared at her.
Something passed between them.
History I couldn’t understand.
Then he took a step back.
“Fine.”
Emily started shutting the door again.
Daniel spoke quickly.
“But you should know why your father actually called.”
She stopped.
“What?”
“He’s selling the house.”
The color vanished from her face.
“What did you say?”
“This house.”
He gestured toward it.
“He wants it listed before Christmas.”
“He can’t.”
“He can.”
“No.”
“Emily—”
“He gave it to Mom.”
“And when your mother died, ownership went back into the family trust.”
Emily gripped the edge of the door.
“You’re lying.”
“Call him.”
“Why would he call you?”
Daniel’s expression shifted.
There it was.
The thing he had actually come for.
“Because my firm is handling the sale.”
Emily looked like he’d struck her.
I stepped closer.
She barely noticed.
Daniel continued.
“I didn’t ask for the account. My partner assigned it.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I came here before papers arrived because I thought you deserved warning.”
“Get off my porch.”
“Emily.”
“Now.”
“This isn’t personal.”
She laughed once.
Broken.
“Everything with you becomes personal eventually.”
Then she slammed the door.
Locked it.
Turned away.
And stood completely still.
I didn’t know what to say.
So I didn’t say anything.
Outside, Daniel remained on the porch for several seconds.
Then his footsteps moved away.
A car door closed.
The engine started.
Headlights crossed the wall.
Then vanished.
Only after he was gone did Emily breathe.
“He can’t sell this house.”
Her voice sounded smaller.
“I thought your parents moved.”
“My dad moved.”
She shook her head.
“My mother died here.”
I hadn’t known that.
Jake had told me his mother passed while I was away at school.
He had never said where.
Or how deeply his sister had stayed tied to this place.
“She left me her share.”
Emily moved toward a desk drawer.
Pulled it open.
Rummaged through papers.
“I have documents.”
Her hands shook.
I came closer.
“Emily.”
“I have them.”
“Okay.”
“She told me this house would always be mine if I wanted it.”
“I believe you.”
“No, you don’t understand.”
She pulled out a folder.
“Dad hated this place after she died. Couldn’t stand walking into the kitchen because her coffee mug was still there. Couldn’t sleep upstairs.”
Her breathing was becoming shallow.
“So he left.”
She found a document.
“This.”
She held it toward me.
I couldn’t interpret legal language quickly enough.
“Mom signed this three months before she died.”
“Does Jake know?”
“He thinks Dad owns everything.”
“And your father?”
“He knows.”
“Then Daniel could be lying.”
She stared at the papers.
“Maybe.”
But she didn’t sound convinced.
I pulled out my phone.
“Call Jake.”
“No.”
“Emily.”
“No.”
“This isn’t protecting him from overreacting anymore.”
“I don’t need him.”
“He’s your brother.”
“And every time something happens, everybody decides what I need before I get to.”
That stopped me.
Because I realized what I had just done.
Exactly that.
I put my phone away.
“Okay.”
She looked at me.
“I won’t call him.”
Her shoulders lowered slightly.
“What do you need?”
That question hit differently.
She sank into the kitchen chair.
“I don’t know.”
“That’s allowed.”
She laughed weakly.
“You got very wise in three years.”
“Don’t spread that around.”
For several minutes, we sat without talking.
Then she said:
“You want to know why my engagement actually ended?”
I thought I already did.
“Daniel cheated.”
“That was part of it.”
“What was the other part?”
She stared at her hands.
“I found out he had been talking to my father about this house.”
My stomach tightened.
“When?”
“Before Mom died.”
“What?”
“Daniel worked at the firm managing Dad’s investments.”
She looked toward the dark hallway.
“I thought they were discussing estate planning.”
Her voice shook with anger now.
“After I found the messages with Caroline, I went through his laptop.”
“What did you find?”
“Emails.”
Her eyes met mine.
“Daniel told Dad that if Mom left her share of the house to me directly, it could complicate the trust.”
“And?”
“He suggested transferring everything before she signed anything.”
I stared at her.
“So he knew your mom wanted you to have the house.”
“Yes.”
“And helped your father try to stop it.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
But again, her expression said she had suspicions.
Then she looked toward the upstairs hallway.
“My mother and Dad fought about me staying here.”
“Why?”
“Because she knew I wanted to open a studio.”
“Studio?”
She smiled faintly.
“You saw the sketchbook.”
I thought about it lying on the bed.
“You draw?”
“I design.”
“What?”
“Interiors mostly. Furniture. Renovations.”
“Seriously?”
“See?”
She smiled sadly.
“You know nothing about me.”
“I’d like to.”
The words came out before I could edit them.
Emily went quiet.
So did I.
For several seconds, neither of us moved.
Then she whispered:
“You always did that.”
“Did what?”
“Say things at exactly the wrong moment.”
“Was that wrong?”
“I don’t know.”
She looked at me.
“That’s the problem.”
Our eyes held.
There were a thousand ways that moment could have gone.
A joke.
A step closer.
A confession.
Instead, keys rattled in the front door.
Jake.
Emily stood instantly.
“Don’t tell him yet.”
I frowned.
“Emily.”
“Please.”
The door opened.
Jake entered carrying an energy drink.
“What’d I miss?”
I looked at Emily.
She looked at me.
Then she smiled at Jake.
“Nothing.”
That word again.
But this time, I understood how heavy it could be.
Jake went to shower.
The second we heard the water running upstairs, Emily pushed the folder toward me.
“There is one thing I need.”
“What?”
“You’re studying business law, right?”
“Barely.”
“Still.”
She tapped the document.
“Can you look at this?”
“I can read it. But I’m not a lawyer.”
“I know.”
She lowered her voice.
“Just tell me whether I’m crazy.”
I skimmed the pages.
Most meant nothing to me.
Trust language.
Transfer clauses.
Names.
Dates.
Then one thing caught my attention.
A signature.
Emily’s mother’s.
Below it, a witness signature.
And below that, another name.
I froze.
“What?”
I pointed.
“Who’s this?”
She leaned over.
Then her face changed.
“That’s impossible.”
“What?”
“The notary.”
“What about him?”
“He died before this was supposedly signed.”
I looked at the date.
Then at her.
“You’re sure?”
“My mother used him for years. He died in March.”
The document was dated June.
Three months later.
Neither of us spoke.
Then footsteps creaked upstairs.
Jake was coming down.
Emily grabbed the document.
Too late.
He entered the kitchen.
Hair wet.
Towel over his shoulders.
He stopped.
“What are you doing?”
Emily tried closing the folder.
Jake saw the name.
Then something incredible happened.
His entire expression changed.
Not confusion.
Recognition.
Fear.
Emily noticed too.
“Jake?”
He didn’t answer.
“Why are you looking at that?”
She stood slowly.
“How do you know this document?”
Jake’s eyes moved from her to me.
Then back.
“I don’t.”
“You’re lying.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You’ve always been terrible at lying.”
He dropped the towel onto the counter.
“Emily, just leave it alone.”
The room went cold.
“What?”
“I said leave it.”
She stared at him.
“You knew.”
Jake’s face tightened.
“Knew what?”
“That Dad was trying to sell the house.”
Silence.
That was enough.
Emily stepped backward as if she’d lost her balance.
“You knew.”
Jake rubbed both hands over his face.
“I found out last week.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“I was going to.”
“When?”
“I don’t know.”
“Daniel told me before my own brother did.”
Jake’s head snapped up.
“Daniel was here?”
“That is what you’re worried about?”
“Yes! Why the hell was Daniel here?”
“He came to warn me about the house you already knew about.”
Jake looked at me.
“You let him in?”
“I didn’t let anybody do anything.”
Emily stepped between us.
“Stop.”
Jake ignored her.
“What happened?”
“Nothing happened.”
“Then why are you—”
“JAKE.”
He stopped.
Emily’s eyes were wet now.
But she refused to let the tears fall.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Jake looked at his sister.
And the anger drained out of him.
Because underneath it, he looked guilty.
“I thought I could fix it.”
“How?”
“Dad owes money.”
Emily stared.
“What?”
“A lot.”
“How much?”
Jake swallowed.
“More than the house is worth.”
Her mouth opened.
No sound came out.
Jake continued.
“His business in Arizona collapsed. He borrowed against the trust.”
“That isn’t possible.”
“It is if the trust documents are what Dad says they are.”
Emily reached for the folder.
“No.”
Jake pointed at it.
“That’s why I didn’t want you going through Mom’s paperwork yet.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“What do you mean yet?”
Too late.
Jake knew he’d made a mistake.
“Jake.”
He said nothing.
“Why didn’t you want me looking through her paperwork?”
His face turned pale.
Emily walked closer.
“What did you find?”
“Nothing.”
“Stop saying that!”
Her voice cracked.
The house went completely still.
Jake finally looked at me.
“Can we talk alone?”
Emily laughed.
“No.”
“Em—”
“No.”
She wiped beneath one eye angrily.
“He stays.”
Jake looked at me again.
There was something unreadable there.
Not anger.
Fear.
Maybe even shame.
Then he walked to a cabinet above the refrigerator.
Reached behind a stack of old serving trays.
And pulled out a small envelope.
Emily stared.
“What is that?”
“I found it after Mom died.”
Her entire body went rigid.
“And you kept it from me?”
“I didn’t know what it meant.”
“Give it to me.”
“Emily—”
“Give it to me.”
Jake placed it on the island.
Her name was written across the front.
Emily.
The handwriting was shaky.
But she recognized it instantly.
Her mother’s.
Emily covered her mouth.
For a long moment, she couldn’t touch it.
Then she picked it up.
The envelope had already been opened.
She noticed.
“You read it.”
Jake nodded.
Emily looked like she might slap him.
Instead she whispered:
“How long?”
“Eleven months.”
Her eyes closed.
“You had a letter from Mom for eleven months?”
“I was scared.”
“Of what?”
Jake’s eyes moved toward me.
Then back.
“What it said.”
Emily pulled out the folded paper.
Her hands trembled as she read.
I didn’t try to look.
But I watched her face.
Confusion.
Disbelief.
Then shock.
She read the page again.
“What?”
Jake said nothing.
Emily turned toward him.
“This isn’t possible.”
“I know.”
“What does it say?” I asked.
She looked at me.
Then handed me the letter.
It was short.
A few paragraphs.
Her mother wrote that she had discovered irregularities in the family trust.
She believed someone had forged documents.
She had hired a separate attorney.
She intended to transfer her ownership interest in the house directly to Emily.
Then came the final paragraph.
The one that explained Jake’s fear.
If anything happens before I can complete this, do not trust the documents Daniel brings you. And do not let your father pressure Emily into signing anything. He knows more than he has admitted.
I looked up.
Emily was staring at Jake.
“So Mom knew.”
“Yes.”
“And Daniel knew.”
“Apparently.”
“And Dad knew.”
Jake didn’t answer.
Emily turned toward me.
The truth was beginning to form.
The fake notary signature.
Daniel’s involvement.
Her father’s sudden financial crisis.
The house sale.
Her mother’s warning.
It wasn’t one problem.
It was the same problem.
Stretching back years.
Then my phone buzzed.
All three of us looked at it.
Unknown number.
A message.
I opened it.
A photograph loaded.
It had been taken through the kitchen window.
Only minutes ago.
The three of us standing around the island.
Underneath it were seven words.
Tell Emily to stop looking into this.
My skin went cold.
Jake saw my face.
“What?”
I turned the phone toward them.
Emily read the message.
Her eyes moved instantly toward the dark window.
Jake pulled the curtain shut.
“Who has your number?” Emily asked.
“Nobody connected to this.”
Another message arrived.
You should have gone back to college.
This time Jake looked at me.
“How the hell do they know who you are?”
I didn’t answer.
Because outside, somewhere beyond the curtain, a car engine started.
Jake ran toward the front window.
By the time he pulled the blinds aside, red taillights were already disappearing at the end of the street.
Emily stood beside me.
She wasn’t crying anymore.
She looked furious.
Then my phone buzzed a third time.
But this message wasn’t from the unknown number.
It was from Daniel.
Don’t believe Jake. Ask him where he was the night your mother died.
I stared at the screen.
Emily saw it over my shoulder.
Her breath stopped.
Jake turned from the window.
“What?”
Emily slowly lifted her eyes toward her brother.
“Where were you?”
Jake’s face changed.
“Emily.”
“The night Mom died.”
Silence.
“Where were you?”
Jake didn’t answer.
And in that moment, I realized the most dangerous secret in that house might not belong to Daniel.
Or their father.
It might belong to my best friend.
