The phone slips from my palm and hits the hardwood floor with a crash, the screen cracking diagonally all the way across. I snatch it up, and pain slices my finger as a shard of glass sticks in the pad. I wince, but my sister’s voice catches up to me.
“I’m getting fucking sick of this,” she says faintly through the screen. “Someone slashed my tires again—nothing but bad luck the last few months. Maybe I just need you here with me. You’re my good luck charm or something. And—hold on, there’s an ultrasound photo under the wiper of my car. Ah, hell, I bet there’s one of those clinics around here—”
Tears well up in my eyes, and I hang up on her because it’s not bad luck, and it’s not a clinic. It’s me. I’ve been missing them. I’ve been reaching out to them. And I’ve been caught.
I’m being toyed with. I move to the bathroom to pull out the sliver of glass with tweezers. I stare at the droplet of blood until it falls from my finger. It immediately spreads, latching onto the water left in the sink, staining it pink.
The door to upstairs closes, and I jump, catching my reflection in the mirror. My face is pale, and terror shines like a high beam behind my eyes. I quickly turn on the tap and scoop up water, splashing it on my face.
“I asked Mom to come to the brunch,” Zeke says, stopping in the door frame. His stance becomes suspicious. “Puking again?”
“Yeah,” I lie. But it’s only sort of a lie because I do feel like puking. Not because of the baby. Because of the email my sister got.
I’ll say hi to the baby for you.
They know. Or maybe they don’t. Maybe it’s because I’m the baby of my family.
God, I hope that’s it.
It has to be.
“Is it okay that I asked her? Do you want me to uninvite her?” His concern is thick, and the voice inside my head says to trust him.
Tell him.
“Yeah, it’s fine,” I say, and he seems satisfied, turning to leave. “Hey, Zeke?”
He faces me again, expectant, but my words get stuck, clawing in my throat with all the threats holding them in. If they know where I am and what’s going on, I can’t tell him.
“Yeah,” he prompts, and I lose my nerve, forcing a smile on my face.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For being you,” I say.
If there’s one thing I can count on with Zeke, it’s that he wears his emotion blatantly. The suspicion deepens and thickens, and I’m afraid he’s going to start prying. But leaked images, prank calls, broken arms, slashed tires. The threats are steadily growing.
It’s becoming apparent that this isn’t just a pissed off fan. This is something closer. Someone closer to my family. Someone who wants us scared. All of us.
They’re using me to do it.
“Nova, you’re bleeding,” Zeke says, his features and demeanour shifting in a whole new way.
He’s like the ocean, the way he transitions from calm to stormy, from rippling waves to cresting foam. But like the ocean, a lot is happening on the surface, but in the dark depths, something unknown lurks. I sense it in his eyes when he looks at me. Especially like this. With concern.
“I’m fine. I dropped my phone and it broke. Just a sliver.”
He takes my hand, stretching my finger out with his thumb, and the gentle touch induces a deep shudder.
Tell him.
“That sucks. We can get you a new one when we’re in town for your appointment.” He’s studying my finger, and tears spring to my eyes. When he glances up at the wet streaks on my cheeks, he switches gears again.
He pulls me to his chest, and I cry silently into his sweater. “I’m sorry. I’m just so emotional all the time.”
I pull away and wipe at my face aggressively. My skin is hot and my body shakes. I don’t remember the last time I’ve cried in front of anyone. My mom. My sister. No one.