𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐞𝐱𝐭

[ ₂₀₂₁! ]

A phone rang—loud and jarring, crackling through the background noise of a house just beginning to feel like a home again.

In the kitchen, it smelled like garlic and tomatoes, heavy and sweet, the air thick with steam and warmth. Natalie stood over the stove, sleeves pushed up to her elbows, a wooden spoon in one hand, her other planted on her hip. A small curl of hair had slipped loose and clung to her cheek in the heat. Her sweatshirt was smeared with flour and something red—probably marinara, though Rowan had insisted, with all the flair of a melodramatic fifteen-year-old, that it looked like blood.

He sat hunched over a battered comic book at the kitchen table, one sock hanging halfway off his foot, his fingers tapping absently against the page as he read. Across from him, Dahlia was threading dry pasta onto a string of yarn, her little face scrunched in concentration, her tongue poking out slightly as if she were beading real pearls.

In the living room beyond the archway, the flicker of a screen danced against the wall. Travis and Molly were curled together on the couch, their voices low, a half-watched sitcom playing in the background. It was the kind of easy conversation people had when their nerves were still fried but their bodies had finally remembered how to rest.

Leaning against the counter with a glass of water going warm in her hand, Annie watched Natalie at the stove. There was something hypnotic about the way she moved—unhurried, methodical, her attention poured entirely into the task in front of her. She stirred with care, scraped the edge of the pot, and added a pinch of something from the spice jar, like she knew exactly how to fix what was missing. It made something twist low in Annie's stomach. Something heavy and familiar.

She looked away—down at the napkin in her hand, where she'd been idly folding and unfolding a corner until it had gone soft. But her gaze didn't stay away long. It never did.

"Annie, can you get that?" Natalie asked without turning.

Annie blinked, cheeks warming as if she'd been caught. She dropped the napkin and wiped her hands on a dishtowel draped over the oven handle—fingers still pruney from rinsing salad greens.

"Yeah," she said, stepping around the counter, not quite hurrying.

There was something funny—almost cruel—in how normal everything had started to feel. The way the house was filling back in around them.

Natalie had been coming over nearly every night now. Cooking. Helping with homework. Letting Rowan pretend to win at cards. Washing dishes and leaving wet footprints across the bathroom tile. She was just... there. Like she belonged.

She kept Thomas's side of the bed warm.

Annie had gotten good at hiding the hickeys — carefully buttoned shirts, a well-placed scarf, always turning her head just enough to keep the bruised edges of affection out of sight. Molly didn't ask. Rowan didn't notice. Or maybe they did, and chose not to say anything.

And it felt good.

Too good.

The kind of good that made her stomach twist when she caught herself smiling at Natalie across the dinner table.

The kind of good that made her fingers linger too long in the laundry pile, holding a T-shirt that smelled like Natalie.

But she felt guilty. Sometimes crushingly so.

Especially with Thomas still missing. When the closet still held his clothes. When Rowan still asked when he'd be back. When the house still felt like it was waiting for him.

Esme, meanwhile, had barely set foot in the house in days. She'd started staying over at the Sadeckis', clinging to Callie like the other girl could anchor her to something steady. Every time Annie tried to catch her—at school, during a lull in class, outside the locker room—Esme would throw her a thin-lipped smile, offer a clipped "I'm fine," and drift back to Callie with a laugh that was just a little too loud, a little too sharp around the edges.

Annie tried not to take it personally. Her dad was missing. Of course, she was retreating into the people who made her feel normal.

In the meantime, Molly, Travis, and Dahlia had moved in with Molly's dad, at least temporarily. Between that and the dinners, and the TV murmuring in the background, and Dahlia's pasta necklaces on the table, the house had started to feel lived in again. Not peaceful, exactly—but occupied. Like something was rooting itself in the quiet.

Annie reached for the phone on the counter, wiping her hand once more on the dishtowel. She glanced at the caller ID.

Kevyn Tan.

Her brow knit before she could stop it. The name sat heavy in her throat. She glanced toward Natalie, who was still tending the sauce, unaware.

Annie swallowed, then lifted the receiver.

"Hello?"

There was a crackle, then a pause.

"...Natalie?"

Annie's voice stayed level. "Annie."

Another pause—this one longer, like whoever was on the other end was turning something over. "Annie? As in Annie Jo Chambers?"

She didn't know what to say to that. It was her name, yes, but hearing it come from Kevyn Tan felt strange—like he was pulling it out from under years of dust. Her fingers tightened slightly on the phone.

"Natalie's with you?" he asked, the question edged with urgency.

"What do you need, Kevyn?" Her voice came out cooler than she meant it to. "She's a little busy."

From the stove, Natalie froze. Not visibly. Not loudly. But Annie saw it—the way her shoulders stiffened, the way her spoon stopped moving, the way her whole body seemed to listen. Annie watched as she turned, slow and quiet, and walked toward the table, placing a hand on Rowan's shoulder.

"Hey, kid," she said, her voice soft but lined with steel. "Why don't you and Dahlia go wash up for dinner?"

Rowan looked up, eyes narrowing. "But I already did."

"Do it again," she said, her smile tight but patient. "Make it count."

He groaned, but obeyed, dragging his feet as he slid off the chair. Dahlia hopped down after him, still clutching her string of pasta beads. They disappeared down the hallway in a flurry of hushed footsteps and childish grumbles.

Natalie turned slowly, her expression unreadable, though Annie could see the subtle shift beneath her features—something locking into place, something steeling.

"Kevyn Tan?" she asked, her voice calm but taut, like a drawn bowstring.

Annie met her eyes and gave the smallest of nods. Barely perceptible. Enough.

Natalie stepped forward and took the phone from Annie's hand with practiced ease, her fingers brushing over Annie's in a way that might have been nothing—but lingered just a second too long. She pressed the speaker button without looking down. Behind her, Annie moved toward the archway, wiping her palms on the hem of her shirt like the tension had settled there. She turned toward the living room, voice low.

"Trav. Molls. C'mere."

The couch groaned. Fabric shifted. Footsteps shuffled against the wood floor.

Travis came in first, posture already alert, like something in Annie's tone had flipped a switch. Molly followed a beat later, carrying a half-empty bag of kettle chips in one hand and brushing crumbs off her sleeve with the other. Her brow was already furrowed.

"What's going on?" she asked, stepping into the kitchen's warm light, her voice edged with suspicion.

"Something with Kevyn Tan," Annie muttered, watching the speakerphone like it might bite. "He works at the station now, so maybe it has to do with—"

"—I, uh, got the file on the guy," Kevyn's voice came through the speaker, rough and staticky, like it was being dragged up through old wires. "Henry Alvarez."

Travis froze mid-step.

His shoulders stiffened visibly, his jaw tightening as he moved to the far side of the table, eyes locked on the phone like it might shatter. A flicker of something unreadable passed over his face—grief, guilt, memory. It wasn't the first time he'd seen someone die. But Henry hadn't been a stranger. He'd been a friend. And the image of his body hanging in that cold, silent barn hadn't left him since.

Natalie didn't say anything. She just listened. Her jaw ticked. One muscle twitched beneath her cheek.

Kevyn's voice crackled back in, more cautious now. "Toxicology came back clean. He wasn't on anything, Natalie. No signs of a struggle, either. It didn't really look like foul play."

Annie's brows knit. She shifted her weight to one leg, arms folding. Then how the hell did he get up on the crane?

"I don't know what he meant to you," Kevyn spoke, almost gently. "And I know it doesn't make it any less of a tragedy but, uh, I hope it'll let you rest easier."

Natalie gave a slow nod, though her face contorted as she tried to match his sincerity. "Yeah," she said finally, voice low. "Yeah, it does. Thanks. I—we—owe you one."

There was a beat of silence. The kind that stretches just a little too long. Annie glanced over at Molly, who lifted a brow at her like you hearing this too?

"Well, in that case, um..." Kevyn let out a long, audible sigh. Annie winced. Molly visibly cringed, clutching the chip bag like it was the last tether to sanity. The man continued speaking, suddenly casual and hopeful in the worst possible way. "If my timing's off, or I'm reading too much into this, don't worry about it. But... if you ever wanna hang out again or—"

"Actually," Annie cut in, too fast, too sweet. Her tone had an edge to it. Velvet wrapped around a knife. "She's busy. Like, really busy."

She reached out, snatched the phone out of Natalie's hand, and spun on her heel in one fluid motion, stalking a few steps back toward the kitchen island.

"Oh look at that," she said with airy false cheer. "She's getting another call. So, she'll talk to you later, okay? Uh-huh. Bye now."

She hung up with a brisk, satisfying tap and turned back around slowly like she'd just slammed a door in someone's face and didn't regret it at all.

Three sets of eyes were on her.

Travis stood with both eyebrows raised halfway to his hairline. Molly had one hand clamped over her mouth, stifling a laugh that was absolutely not going to stay hidden. And Natalie—Natalie looked equal parts surprised and amused, a smirk twitching at the corner of her mouth.

"What?" Annie said, shrugging as she handed the phone back to her. "He was getting on my nerves."

"Right..." Molly drawled, still half-laughing. She turned toward Natalie, arms folding. "So now that we know all that, what do we do?"

Natalie exhaled through her nose, gaze going distant for half a second. "Call Misty."

Molly groaned so loudly it startled Dahlia's abandoned pasta necklace on the table. She leaned back until the back of her head hit Travis's chest. He steadied her instinctively, hands sliding around her middle.

"Do we have to?" she whined. "I was enjoying my Misty-free peace."

Natalie gave her a look. Half-apologetic. Half-defeated. "Yeah. We do."

She scrolled through her contacts, thumb moving fast. She didn't hesitate when she found Misty's name. Just tapped and pressed call. The phone rang once. Twice.

Then, finally, the blonde picked up. "Hello?"

"Misty," Natalie said, already crossing her arms again, "didn't you say you knew a guy who could break into people's email?"

There was a beat. Then Misty spoke again, her voice suddenly high-pitched and fake.

"Who is this, please?"

Molly dropped her head back onto Travis's shoulder and let out a groan like she was physically in pain. "Come on, Misty. Do you or don't you? It's a yes-or-no question."

A theatrical sigh crackled through the speaker.

"So," Misty said with way too much flair, "you've got the whole gang over, huh? And still no apology. Tsk tsk."

Annie leaned in, tilting her head toward the phone like she was too tired for games.

"Misty," she said, low and clear. "Please."

Another beat. Then a dramatic sigh.

"In light of everything you've all been through," Misty began, like she was delivering a line in a community theater drama, "I will forgive you."

Molly mouthed what the fuck to Travis, who just shook his head slowly, like none of this was new.

"In terms of my contact, I'll reach out to them. Who are we hacking?"

"Kevyn," Natalie answered. "He's got the file on the guy's death. But as far as he knows, it's suicide. So I can't exactly ask for it."

There was a pause—and Annie could hear the smile forming on Misty's face.

"Consider it done," Misty chirped.

The line went dead.

Annie blinked at the phone in Natalie's hand.

"Jesus," she muttered. "Is she really still that mad about not getting invited over?"

She stepped closer and reached behind Natalie toward the stove, dipping a finger into the marinara sauce. She tasted it, lips parting around a soft hum.

"Never mind," she said, licking her fingertip. "I get it."

‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧

About an hour after dinner, just as the house had started to settle again—lights dimmed, dishes drying in the rack, the low thrum of evening comfort humming in the background—the doorbell rang.

Once.

Twice.

Three times in rapid succession, sharp and insistent.

Annie's head snapped up from the couch, where she'd been curled up with her legs tucked under her and a half-empty mug of tea going cold on the coffee table.

"What the hell..." she muttered, already rising.

She padded barefoot across the hardwood, each step soft and slow. Her hand hovered over the doorknob for a beat, her gut tightening with the kind of unease that comes from old instincts refusing to die.

She cracked the door open.

"Misty?" she blinked, incredulous.

There she stood on the porch in a windbreaker and boots, her hair slightly windblown, arms overloaded with manila folders, loose papers, and a battered laptop bag slung awkwardly across her chest.

Without waiting for permission, Misty barreled past Annie and into the house like a storm front, her elbow bumping the door as she kicked it shut behind her. The stack of papers wobbled dangerously in her arms but somehow didn't fall.

"Sure, you can come in," Annie muttered, letting the door swing closed behind her. She turned and followed Misty's wake through the hall, brow furrowed.

"What's all that?" Natalie asked, emerging from the kitchen and drying her hands on a dishtowel. She looked Misty up and down, more wary than surprised at this point.

Misty made a beeline for the dining table and dumped everything on it with a theatrical flourish. Folders slid across the wood, the laptop thudded down, and loose sheets fanned out like cards dealt at high speed.

"A gift," she announced brightly, already cracking open one of the folders. "From my contact. You're welcome, by the way."

That did it.

The rest of the group began filtering in, drawn by the sudden flurry of movement like deer cautiously stepping out into a clearing.

Molly came in first, brushing chip dust off her shirt, eyes narrowing as she stepped up beside Misty and flipped open the topmost folder.

Then—she froze.

Her whole body locked up, hand clenching tight around the edge of the paper.

"Oh my god," she whispered, her face blanching. "These are autopsy photos. These are from Kevyn's email?"

"Yup," Misty chirped, not looking up. "And you're lucky I got them. My contact nearly hung up when he realized he was cracking open a police server."

Travis appeared next, slower. He'd just finished putting Dahlia to bed in Esme's room—her little voice still echoing in his head from asking if she could sleep with the light on. But the second his eyes landed on the grainy photographs, he stopped cold.

He stepped closer.

One of the prints had slid to the edge of the table, showing the pale, slack face of Henry Alvarez beneath harsh fluorescent lighting.

"Jesus," Travis muttered, his voice barely above a breath. "They just... slice them open like that?"

The question landed heavy in the air.

His voice faltered at the end, like he'd realized too late how close he'd drifted to something none of them wanted to say out loud.

No one answered.

No one moved.

No one looked at him.

Because they all knew what it reminded them of.

The room went quiet—eerily quiet—as folder after folder passed from hand to hand. The only sound was the soft rustle of paper, punctuated by the occasional, unspoken breath. A few pages stuck together from the heat of the printer ink. Annie gently peeled them apart.

She dropped into a chair, stiff and slow, and pulled a file closer. Her jaw clenched tight as she scanned one of the images—a close-up of the neck. Purple-red bruises. Rope burns so deep they looked carved. The skin torn in places.

"Hey, Nat?" Misty piped up suddenly, oblivious—or simply unmoved—by the tension. She tapped a photo with one perfectly manicured nail. "What's that?"

Natalie leaned in. "What?"

"That dark spot," Misty clarified, grabbing another photo from the pile and holding it side-by-side. "Here it is again. See?"

Annie squinted at the image. "What? That smudge?"

"Yeah," Misty said. "It's the same shape in both shots."

Annie straightened a little. "I saw something like that when we were there. It was on the ground, near the crane. It looked almost like—"

"Wax," Misty finished for her, eyes narrowing. Her tone dropped into something colder, more precise. She grabbed another photo and then another, flipping through them with clinical speed. "Yeah. It is."

The group instinctively cleared space around her as she moved. Papers were nudged aside, folders pushed back. Misty spread the photos out in layers, arranging them with practiced efficiency like she was building a crime scene diorama.

"Annie, do you have a Sharpie?" she asked, not looking up.

"Uh—yeah. One sec." Annie stood, crossed the room, and yanked open the desk drawer.

As soon as Annie held her hand out, the blonde uncapped it with her teeth and bent over the table, drawing thick black lines across the glossy prints. One after the other. Connecting dots. Creating angles. Sketching a pattern.

The others stood around her in a tight circle, the kitchen light overhead throwing shadows across their faces. No one said a word.

Annie's eyes followed the ink lines—watched them curve, intersect, form something almost... familiar.

"Misty, what are you—"

She stopped.

Misty straightened, stepped back, and capped the pen with a snap.

There, traced across five overlapping photographs, was a symbol. One they all knew. One they'd all tried to forget.

The symbol.

"Oh, shit," Molly whispered, her voice barely audible. She looked up at Travis like she was waiting for him to say it wasn't what they thought it was.

"This is bad," Natalie muttered, jaw tight. "Really fucking bad."

Annie crossed her arms, heat rising in her chest. "We were supposed to be done with that. Done with all this shit."

Misty met her gaze across the table, her face uncharacteristically serious. "Yeah, well. Clearly we're not. Because someone put that symbol exactly where Henry Alvarez died."

Travis stared at the table, voice low and uncertain. "I never—we never talked about any of it. Not with Henry. He wouldn't have known."

"We changed our names," Molly said quietly. "We left everything. Everyone."

"Somebody put that there," Natalie said, her voice cutting through the fog like a blade. She turned away from the table, grabbing her phone off the counter, and unlocking it with one quick flick of her thumb. Her fingers moved fast, scrolling.

"I know who we need to reach out to," she said, her voice flat and focused.

They all stared at her.

And for a second, no one asked.

They didn't have to.

‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧

For years, Annie and Taissa had orbited each other like distant satellites—caught in the same gravitational pull, too far to touch but too tethered to drift away entirely. Theirs was a quiet kind of connection, one that had dulled with time but never fully unraveled. These days, their contact came in brief pulses: a birthday text. A forwarded article. A donation during campaign season with no message attached. A one-line reply that said just enough—Still breathing. You?

But there had been a time—just before the crash—when their bond had felt like a lifeline. When Taissa was the first to say what Annie couldn't say it out loud.

And even though Annie hadn't been ready to hear it then, even though it felt like being cracked open with no warning—some part of her had always been grateful.

Because Taissa had seen her.

In a fucked up, unnecessary way—but she did.

And now, after everything, it was Annie who had to reach out first.

The door opened with a soft creak, and Taissa Turner stepped into the house like she was crossing into enemy territory. Her movements were careful, composed, calculated. She peeled off her sunglasses with two fingers and scanned the living room with the sharp, practiced gaze of someone who didn't trust the quiet.

"Since my press conference," she began coolly, her voice echoing just slightly off the hardwood, "my phone hasn't stopped ringing with folks trying to interview me. And not that I'm not happy to see you—or be here—but..."

She looked Annie dead in the eye, then moved over to Natalie.

"...why am I here?"

She set her bag down on the coffee table like a challenge. And waited.

From the archway of the kitchen, a second voice answered.

"Long time, no see, Tai."

Taissa turned and blinked as Molly Serrano stepped into the light, her arms already wide open.

"Molly?" Taissa's composure cracked for the first time, genuine surprise flickering across her face.

"Taissa," Molly said warmly, pulling her into a hug that somehow managed to feel both nostalgic and entirely out of place in the tense room. "I missed you."

Taissa hesitated for a split second before hugging her back.

Travis followed a beat later, a much-needed coffee in hand, his shoulders relaxed but his expression cautious. "Nice to see you, Taissa."

"Travis," she echoed, softer now. Her gaze drifted between the two of them, eyes narrowing. "Okay. What's going on here?"

No one answered immediately.

Instead, Natalie stepped forward from the corner of the room, her boots silent on the rug. She moved with quiet intent, a stack of manila papers clutched in her hand—the ones Misty had scrawled on the day before. She crossed to the coffee table and laid them down in front of Taissa with a dull thud, then stepped back, arms crossed tightly over her chest.

Her eyes never left Taissa's face.

Taissa looked down slowly.

"...What is that?" she asked.

"The floor of the barn where Henry Alvarez died," Annie said quietly, stepping up beside her. Her voice was measured, but something trembled beneath it.

Taissa blinked once. Then again. "How did you—don't tell me you guys were there."

"The police are calling it a suicide," Natalie cut in. Her voice was steady but tight. "But there were candles, Tai. Arranged exactly like that." She pointed to the overlapping smudges Misty had outlined in Sharpie. "Someone burned them and took them away."

"Who would do that?" Taissa asked, looking around the room now. "Why?"

Her voice cracked slightly at the edges—no longer skeptical, just... rattled.

Annie opened her mouth to answer, but her phone buzzed in her pocket, the vibration sharp and sudden against the silence.

She fumbled for it instinctively, a flicker of hope rising too fast in her chest.

Maybe it was Thomas. Maybe it was Esme.

But the number was unfamiliar. Unknown.

Her stomach dropped.

She stared down at the message:

Gather 50K cash and await further instructions. Do not discuss with your teammates — I will know.

And beneath it—

The symbol. Again.

Dark and simple. Marked like a scar across the screen.

Across the room, another buzz.

Then another.

And another.

And another.

Natalie checked her phone. Her brow furrowed. Her whole body tensed.

Travis looked down. His jaw tightened.

Taissa's eyebrows drew together in confusion, then disbelief.

"What the actual fuck?" Molly said, her voice rising. She held up her phone, screen still lit. "Did you guys... get texts too?"

Taissa stared at her phone, her lips moving silently as she reread the message. Her hands were steady, but her eyes had gone flinty with focus. She looked up slowly.

"I'm calling Shauna."

She swiped. Hit the button. The phone screen dimmed. Nothing.

"Shit." Her voice was flat now, angry. "It just died."

She turned sharply to the others, face tightening. "Who else has Shauna's number?"

Molly glanced sideways at Annie. "...Annie?"

But Annie was already backing up, hands raised in protest.

"Nope. Absolutely not. She hates me."

"She doesn't hate—"

"Molly." Annie's voice cracked as she cut her off. "We both know she does." She stepped back again, away from the circle of the living room light. Her arms wrapped tightly around her torso. "Besides, Esme's staying at her place and I—"

"Annie," Taissa said, cutting through the air like a blade. Her voice was calm, but her eyes were steel. "We need Shauna."

The words sat heavy between them.

Annie turned to look at her—and then, across the room, Natalie was watching her. Her arms crossed. Her expression unreadable. But something passed in her eyes before she gave a silent nod.

Annie exhaled a breath she hadn't realized she was holding and dragged a hand down her face.

"Fine," she said hoarsely. "I'll call her."

‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧

Shauna Shipman—now Sadecki— didn't know what to expect when Callie casually mentioned that her girlfriend, Esme Fielding, would be staying the week.

She wanted to be surprised. She really did.

But she wasn't.

There was too much Annie Jo in Esme's eyes.

Too much shadow in the way she moved.

Too much of that thing they had never said out loud, stretching across generations.

What did surprise her—what stopped her cold in the middle of deciding what was for dinner—was the phone call.

Not from Callie.

Not from Esme.

But from her mother.

From Annie Jo Chambers.

The name lit up her phone screen like a siren. Like a bruise she didn't realize was still there.

She almost didn't answer.

Almost.

But curiosity—or maybe something older, something colder—won out.

She swiped to accept.

"Shauna."

The voice came sharp and immediate, all edge and no preamble. It landed like a slap across the years.

Shauna stiffened. "Annie."

Just her name. That was all she had.

She didn't even know why she'd saved the number in the first place.

Maybe it was because Annie had turned up on Callie's class syllabus—Wiskayok High, Art II, Ms. Chambers.

Maybe she'd typed it in that same night, something clenched and half-formed in her chest as she stared down at the glowing screen.

A gut instinct.

Or guilt.

Probably both.

But she never thought Annie would use it first.

"Listen," Annie started quickly, voice already tight with urgency. "A man is dead and—"

"I know."

There was a pause.

A beat where everything in the room seemed to go still.

On the other end of the line, Annie stopped mid-breath, eyes flicking upward like she needed to reorient herself. Her body had gone rigid. The living room behind her was quiet but humming with presence—Natalie tense, Molly pacing, Travis lingering by the window with his arms folded.

"She just said she already knows," Annie muttered, eyes darting to Natalie.

"What?" Natalie stepped forward, her brows knit. "How?"

Annie pressed the phone harder against her ear, her fingers curling slightly. "How the fuck could you possibly know that, Shauna?"

"Misty called me," Shauna said, calm and flat—like it was nothing. Like she hadn't just cracked something wide open across twenty-five years of buried silence.

Annie's jaw flexed. "I'm going to kill her."

Molly raised her brows, halfway through a drink. "Kill who?"

"Misty," Annie bit out, spinning toward the group. "She told Shauna. About everything."

"That conniving, poodle-haired little fucking freak," Natalie growled. She took the phone from Annie's hand with care, her touch surprisingly gentle, and brought it to her ear as she turned away from the others. "Shauna, get here now. We've got a big fucking problem."

"Alright, alright," Shauna muttered, already moving.

She didn't bother saying goodbye. Just pressed the phone between her shoulder and cheek as she walked through the kitchen, past the breakfast nook where a cold cup of coffee still sat untouched. The air smelled like cinnamon and body lotion and something faintly floral—Esme's shampoo, maybe.

She stepped into the living room quietly, her shoes soft on the carpet.

Callie and Esme were curled up on the couch in a messy knot of denim and flannel, socks half-off, legs entangled. Callie had her fingers in Esme's curls, her other hand rested against Esme's jaw like she was afraid she might disappear, while Esme's thumb brushed gently over her girlfriend's cheekbone. They were kissing like they were the only two people in the world.

Like they were somewhere else entirely.

Somewhere safe.

Somewhere without history.

Shauna stood there for a second too long, caught in a silence that felt like a mirror. Her throat tightened. She looked away.

They didn't hear her. Didn't see her.

She turned back to the dining room, reaching for the faded blue flannel hanging off the back of a chair—It still smelled faintly of laundry soap and something warm she couldn't name. She slid it over her shoulders with a sigh.

"I'll be back soon, girls," she called softly—more out of habit than hope as she left the house, the door swinging shut behind her with a soft but final click.

It took Shauna just under ten minutes to drive from her house to Annie's—and absolutely not because she'd blown through a stop sign and gunned it down the roads like she was seventeen again.

Her hands had a white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel the entire way, knuckles stiff and aching by the time she swerved into the driveway and braked hard enough to jolt forward in her seat. The moment the tires stopped, she was already moving—yanking the gear into park and slamming the car door behind her with more force than she meant to. The sound cracked through the quiet street like a gunshot.

The evening air felt heavier here, like it had gathered on her chest and was refusing to let go. Maybe it was just this house. Or the porch. Or the years pressing in from every side. She paused on the first step, breathing out through her nose, and then climbed the stairs two at a time. Her knuckles rapped against the door—twice, firm and fast, then once more for good measure.

She didn't know why she was humming. Just a low sound under her breath. A nervous habit maybe. Something to fill the silence so it didn't fill her first.

A few seconds passed.

Then the door creaked open, just a few inches at first. Natalie's sharp, pale face appeared in the sliver of space, her eyes raking across the front porch and driveway like she half-expected someone to be crouched behind the hydrangeas.

When she saw that Shauna was alone, she pulled the door open fully.

Shauna slipped inside, flashing the woman a crooked, half-apologetic smile—only for her eyes to lock with Annie's across the room.

Natalie shut the door with a bang that made Shauna flinch and turn around fast, her fingers twitching at her sides.

"You look like shit," Natalie said flatly.

Shauna raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Uh, well, back at you."

Natalie didn't miss a beat. "How's Jeff?" she asked, voice softening into mock sweetness. She tilted her head, stepping forward just enough to make the question feel personal. "Still hocking futons?"

Shauna's jaw tensed before she could stop it.

There it was. The opening jab.

On the couch, Annie inhaled sharply, the sound almost hidden beneath the tension thickening in the air.

"Nat," she said, quietly but with meaning. A warning folded into a breath.

Taissa stood up before Natalie could respond, pressing a steady hand to Annie's arm in passing. "Okay, no," she said, stepping between them like a referee with better things to do. "We are not doing this. Not after all the shit we've been through."

And then, from the far corner of the room: "Wait—you married Jeff?"

Shauna turned, startled.

Molly was draped across the armchair like a cat who owned the place, one socked foot tucked under her, the other bouncing lazily. Travis stood behind her, leaned casually against the wall, sipping from a half-finished beer bottle like he was watching a very tense episode of something on cable.

"I swear," Molly added, shaking her head slowly. "Everyone made some really interesting choices once we got out of here."

Travis grinned, covering it with a shrug.

Shauna blinked at them, the wind momentarily knocked out of her. "You two—what the hell are you even doing here?"

Molly grinned. "Nice to see you too, Shipman...or do I have to call you Sadecki now?"

"Molly," Taissa sighed, rubbing a hand over her face, clearly on the brink. She turned toward Shauna, tone cooling but steady. "We've got a situation. We're going to deal with it—together."

Shauna exhaled sharply, crossing her arms. "Okay, fine. What's...what's going on?"

Natalie didn't answer—just gave a short nod toward the coffee table in front of Annie, where the photo and papers had sat untouched since that afternoon. Shauna approached slowly, tension creeping up her spine. Her eyes flicked to Annie once—briefly, warily—before settling on the evidence.

Shauna leaned closer, squinting at the autopsy. "That's the guy from the news," she said after a beat. "Henry Alves, right?"

"Alvarez," Taissa corrected, her voice quieter now. The grim kind of quiet.

Shauna nodded faintly. Her eyes were still locked on the photograph.

Across from her, Annie turned her face slightly away, jaw set like it might break apart if she opened her mouth.

Shauna squatted down on her heels, one hand braced on the coffee table for balance as she pulled the layered printouts closer. Her fingers traced over the uneven edges of paper that had clearly been spread, rearranged, handled a dozen times today. The black sharpie lines that Misty had drawn still looked fresh—an angular, unsettling shape etched across what were once clinical autopsy photos and blurred shots of wax stains on concrete. She didn't have to know the symbol by name. Her stomach already recognized it.

Natalie stepped up behind her, arms crossed, her shadow stretching long over Shauna's crouched form.

"Someone strung him up," she said, voice low but unwavering. "And then tried to cover their tracks."

Shauna's brow furrowed. "But the police said—"

"We think it's the same person blackmailing us," Taissa cut in smoothly, stepping closer. Her tone was practical, but the tension behind it was unmistakable.

Shauna's head jerked up. "What?" Her voice was sharper now. "Blackmail?"

"You didn't get one of these?" Natalie asked. She reached past Annie—who had been silent, stiff—to snatch the glossy postcard off the desk. It was already curled at the corners from being handled too much. Natalie passed it over.

Shauna stood and took the card, flipping it over in her hand. On the back, the symbol—that symbol—was stamped beneath it, black as tar.

Shauna's expression changed. Color drained from her face. "No..." she whispered, barely audible. "I didn't get anything like this." She looked around the room like someone might pop up and call it a joke. "What do they want?"

"Fifty grand in cash to keep their mouth shut." Taissa said, folding her arms tighter. "We're not exactly sure what they know, but... I sure as hell don't want to find out."

Shauna scanned the group, her eyes sharp now, calculating. "Did you... all get one?"

"Not us," Molly said, finally speaking from her perch on the arm of the couch, her ankle draped casually over her knee. Travis leaned against the wall beside her, arms crossed but quiet. "We were kinda busy trying to leave with a six-year-old asking one thousand questions about why we were leaving in the middle of the night."

"Yeah," Travis added with a dry, grim smile. "Didn't exactly get to check the mailbox."

"The rest of us did," Natalie confirmed, eyes flicking toward Annie. "And Misty."

Shauna's brow furrowed. She shook her head slowly, fingers tightening around the edge of the postcard. "I mean, it's got to be someone from the team, right? Like, who else would know about this?"

"Why would someone from the team blackmail us?" Molly asked, lifting her hands in disbelief. "Everyone did just as much. Who the hell would want to profit from that?"

Annie cleared her throat.

It wasn't loud, but it was enough. The room turned toward her.

Her voice came quiet but clear. "That reporter. The one who's obsessed with us. With our stories."

Shauna's gaze flicked toward her, then snapped to Taissa. "Wait—wait. I thought I told you to take care of her."

Taissa gave a slow shrug, like she already regretted whatever she was about to say. "I threatened a lawsuit. Told her to back off."

"Fuck this," Natalie muttered, already pulling her phone from her back pocket, her fingers flying over the screen.

Taissa squinted, eyes narrowing. "What are you doing?"

Natalie didn't look up. She kept typing, thumbs tapping rapid-fire, her mouth curling into something that looked like a smirk but didn't reach her eyes. "I'm gonna bring Jessica Roberts—great fake name, by the way—to us. And I'll just say, 'Oh, I'm ready to tell my story.'"

Travis stood up a little straighter, his brow furrowed. "Nat..." He trailed off like he was searching for the right words, but settled for a firm, "I don't think that's a great idea."

"No," Shauna agreed, her arms crossed tight over her chest. "Because if it's not her, then we are just handing her the exact kind of story she's looking for."

"Yeah, Travis and Shauna are right, Nat. Please." Taissa added, stepping forward now, her voice tense. "Please, just put the phone down. Stop it. Stop it!"

But Natalie didn't flinch.

She kept scrolling, eyes still locked on the glowing screen, face set. Her jaw ticked slightly—something behind her eyes buzzing too fast to name. The kind of mood that didn't care about consequences. That laughed in the face of threat. That burned first and thought later.

And nothing was going to stop her—

Except Annie.

Annie turned toward her, slowly, deliberately. Her arms were crossed, but her posture softened just enough to register.

"Natalie," she said. Low. Clear. Not a yell.

Just her name. Spoken with all the gravity of everything they hadn't said.

Natalie froze.

Her fingers hovered just above the screen, thumb poised.

And then she looked up. Locked eyes with Annie.

"You know I don't like it when you yell at me," she said softly. The edge in her voice dissolved into something teasing—something lighter than it had any right to be. Like she was holding onto humor the way other people held onto hope. "At least not in public."

The joke landed like a spark—light, but deliberate.

Molly made a noise like she was pretending not to hear anything at all.

With a slow flick of her wrist, she tossed the phone onto the table. It skidded across the wood and hit a folder with a dull slap.

Then Natalie sank down onto the couch beside Annie like the decision had drained something out of her. She leaned back lazily, slinging one arm across the back of the couch, fingers barely brushing Annie's shoulder as she settled in close.

Annie exhaled a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

She shifted slightly to give Natalie more room—just a few inches. Enough. Her gaze dropped to her lap as Natalie's warmth settled beside her like something familiar. Still, she leaned into the touch.

Shauna had been quiet through the last exchange, but now her gaze flicked to the couch—specifically to the space where Annie and Natalie now sat, shoulders brushing. Her eyes narrowed, but she didn't comment. Instead, she turned to Taissa.

"Can you get the money?"

Taissa nodded slowly. "I'm working on it," she said. Her voice was steady, but there was a tightness in her jaw that suggested she hadn't figured out how yet.

Shauna exhaled through her nose, already calculating. "Once you do, we put a GPS tracker in with the cash, and that way we can follow it, and see who, what we're—we're dealing with." She looked around the room, then fixed her gaze pointedly on Annie and Natalie. "Together."

Molly leaned forward in her chair, grinning as she picked at a fraying thread on the hem of her sleeve. "You track your kid, don't you, Shauna?" Shauna didn't answer, but her silence said enough. "It's a good idea, though. The GPS tracker. Creepy. But good."

Shauna shot her a glare but didn't argue. Instead, she hesitated—just long enough to make everyone glance her way. Then, reluctantly, "I can't believe I'm about to say this, but... should we loop Misty in?"

"No," Taissa said immediately, her tone like a slamming door. Her arms crossed over her chest, ironclad. "She could be part of this."

Annie arched a brow. "She did kinda help us get to this point, though. Found Travis and Molly. Got us those files."

"And she fucked with my car," Natalie muttered, almost like muscle memory. Her voice was dry, her expression unreadable, but it earned a few tired glances.

Annie bumped her shoulder against Natalie's in mock annoyance. Natalie glanced down and smiled, that familiar warmth flickering behind her storm-blue eyes. Annie quickly looked away, trying not to get pulled in.

"But still," she added, gesturing to the layered photos and the symbol that spanned across them in sharp black ink, "she did that. She pieced it together. As much as I hate to admit it... we couldn't have gotten this far without her."

Taissa said nothing. Her silence was agreement—grudging and bitter, but real.

"Right," Shauna sighed, rubbing her temples like the headache was finally catching up. "Naturally."

A heavy pause stretched between them all, full of history and tension.

Then Shauna looked up again, brows raised. "Um, is there anything else I should know about, or does the blackmail, the man being murdered, and these two playing buddy cop with Misty fucking Quigley just about cover it?"

Molly raised her hand half-heartedly, like she was in a classroom. "I mean... Travis and I have a kid—"

"Mol, not now," Travis cut in, fast and low, placing a hand on her back. She rolled her eyes and leaned against him with exaggerated patience.

Natalie reclined against the couch cushions like she was bored already. She swept a lazy hand through the air. "You're free to go," she drawled, voice dripping with sarcasm. "You must be busy. With your perfect suburban life and all..."

Shauna stood with a grunt and pushed herself off the floor, wincing slightly. She dusted her knees off with sharp little swipes, like she was brushing away the last ten minutes.

"Good," she said flatly. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have two teenagers to feed and a fridge full of nothing."

Annie stepped forward, arms crossed, one brow cocked. "Well, feel free to send my daughter home anytime."

Shauna scoffed over her shoulder, already halfway to the door. "She's currently sucking my daughter's face on my couch."

Annie froze like she'd been slapped. "Oh my God. I can't unsee that."

The door shut behind Shauna with a solid click.

Silence stretched for a moment.

Then Molly grinned and turned slowly toward Annie, one eyebrow arched. "Like mother, like daughter, huh?"

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

Now... this chapter. This chapter.

Welcome to "holy shit, the blackmail is real and everyone's freaking out" territory.

First of all... confirmed that Annie and Natalie are kinda... you know.

Second of all, where exactly is Thomas?

Meanwhile, at the Sadecki house, Esme and Callie are acting like future Annie and Natalie...

Anyways...

Shauna finally showing up and not exactly bringing sunshine and rainbows — more like a caffeine-fueled storm with a side of "why is everyone so damn tense?"

Natalie's snark is fully on point, Shauna's eye-rolls are legendary, and Taissa's playing the responsible grown-up... ish.

Also, can we talk about the amount of passive-aggressive jabs thrown around like it's a family reunion? Jeff and futons are officially back in the spotlight. Molly and Travis are just standing there like, yep, we made the right choice.

The blackmail postcards? Yeah. Fifty grand to keep quiet. As if this group didn't have enough on their plates.

And Misty... complicated vibes. Should she be trusted? Or is she part of the problem? We're all deciding.

Also, who wants to guess what's going on between Annie and Shauna? Put your guesses here:

Honestly, this chapter feels like the calm before the next storm, but that calm is holding a whole lot of electricity.

Thanks for sticking through the tension — your comments and theories keep the chaos alive and make me want to write even messier scenes. Please make sure you comment, vote, and add to your library!

Question of the chapter: If you had to pick, who do you think would make the best food out of the group?

Bonus Question: What's your favorite passive-aggressive insult from this chapter? I'm partial to Natalie's Jeff/futon roast.

Make sure you check out the start of my Lottie fanfic, Muse... it'll have slow updates, but the anticipation will be there!

Until next time,
Lyss