After what feels like an eternity, Emma steps back, her gaze gripping mine like a vice.
Heat swamps my nerve endings before taking over my entire body. "What the fuck are you doing here?" I hiss as soon as her hand leaves my mouth.
I yank the comforter from my bed and wrap it around me as best I can. It's not like Emma's never seen me in my underwear before, but standing half-naked in front of her now feels unnatural. And I'm not about to make myself more vulnerable than I already am.
Her lips quiver like she's trying not to laugh. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. You just looked so cute getting ready for bed. It reminded me of when we were kids and I used to stay over. Remember how sweet we were back then, always wanting to spend the night at each other's houses?"
The hell she didn't mean to scare me! If I didn't know better, I'd say she accomplished exactly what she was hoping to.
Don't let her distract you with nostalgia. My jaw clenches, white hot tension radiating up both sides of my face. "What are you doing in my room?"
Emma's eyes widen, the picture of pure innocence. "Waiting for you?"
"In the dark?" I say through gritted teeth.
"I didn't think you'd answer if I sent a text. We didn't exactly leave things on friendly terms, did we?" She doesn't wait for an answer. "Were you out with Smith?"
A suffocating heaviness stifles the air, making it impossible to take a full breath. She already knows the answer, I can feel it, but I'm not giving her the satisfaction. "It's Friday night. I went to the football game—same as I always do."
She nods, slowly, deliberately, but doesn't let it go. "With Smith." It's not a question.
I choose my next words carefully. "He was there, but so were a lot of people."
"Except you weren't there to see a lot of people."
She's toying with me, the way a cat teases a mouse before the kill. Well, I'm not playing her stupid game. "Actually, I did go to see someone, but it wasn't Smith." I give her a moment, let what I said sink in. "I was hoping to find Jordan."
Emma doesn't flinch. "And did you?"
I hate the expression on her face, the one that says she's here with a lucrative business opportunity. But her job is a shady one. The kind that sends up red flags and makes you want to flee in the opposite direction.
A lump of fear settles in the back of my throat, but I swallow past it, not letting her see. "She was there, but it was too crowded to talk. I guess it'll have to wait for the soccer game tomorrow."
Her hands drag down her face. She waits a beat, and then, "Hayes—I'm not sure what you're trying to accomplish here. Whatever Jordan thinks she knows is wrong, unless she had something to do with my disappearance. And who knows, maybe she did? At this point, anything's possible." Her posture softens as she studies me. "Can I be honest with you?"
I don't know. Can she be? "By all means."
A short silence stretches between us before she speaks again. When she does, the edge to her voice is gone. It's gentle, the way an adult would speak to a frightened child. "I'm worried about you."
My eyes narrow as I work to unveil her motive, and I bind the blanket tighter around my chest. "You're worried about me?"
"I'm serious," she says, taking a step closer. "You've not been yourself lately."
"I've not been myself?" I'm unable to contain my laughter. I steal a glance at my bedroom door, half expecting Mom to barge through. But she doesn't. "What are you talking about?"
"You know, like how you were before?" she prods. "That thing you did?"
A shiver of unease works its way up my spine.
"Are you still taking your medications?"
I hesitate, a slick of sweat coating my palms. "Why?"
"Because if you weren't, it would explain a lot." One corner of Emma's mouth creeps higher. She takes another step closer, her voice even softer. "Your anxiety. The paranoia. Your growing obsession with Jordan. I'd hate to see you have another breakdown. The first one was bad enough."
"The first one was triggered by a personal tragedy," I tell her, trying to score the upper hand. "As long as I follow my doctor's orders, I'll be fine. No reason for you to worry."
"Oh." Emma's eyebrows lift in surprise. "Are you saying my disappearance wasn't a personal tragedy? Weird. I thought we were closer than that."
"That's not what I meant. Don't try to turn this around." I swallow hard to clear my throat. "There is nothing wrong with me."
"You almost killed a man." Her eyes go wide as if she's reminding me of something I'd forgotten. Something taboo, pushed to the darkest corner of my mind.
"That happened a long time ago. I was a different person back then."
Emma shrugs. "Still. You completely lost your shit, the way you made that entire story up in your head. How you willed it to life. How do we know it won't happen again?"
Breath leaks from me like a punctured tire, depleting my lungs. I push out a response. "It won't."
But she continues on, as though I'd never said a word. "Your parents were so scared for you—and probably scared of you, if I'm being honest. Do you remember that? When they had to admit you to the hospital, and all of those visits with Dr. I Wilder? It'd be a shame to see that happen again. I know how happy you were when you didn't have to see him every week."
Her words hang in the air between us like a threat. I bite down on the inside of my cheek until the bitter taste of blood floods my mouth. "This isn't like that."
"How do you know?"
"Because I just do. I'm not paranoid."
Emma purses her lips like she doesn't believe me.
"There's something you're not telling us and Jordan knows what it is," I insist, ignoring her silent accusation. "You were fighting that day in the locker room, and when I asked you about it, you lied. I want to know why you were so upset. Because I'd never in my life seen you look like that before."
She cocks her to the side, and gives me a pitiful smile. "Hayes—Jordan and I didn't have a fight in the locker room."
"Yes you did—I saw you!" When Emma reaches for my arm, I snatch it away. "And when I brought it up, you said it was a disagreement about a play. That was a lie!"
"I'm telling you, it never happened."
"Yes. It. Did! I witnessed it with my own two eyes!" Tears roll down my cheeks, leaving behind salty trails of frustration. I wipe them away with the back of my hand.
This isn't like before. Dr. Wilder taught me how to tell the difference between what's real and what's not. When it's a worry I made up in my head, or something grounded in reality. And the medicine helps, too. I'd know if their fight were a delusion, wouldn't I?
Wouldn't I?
I sniffle, shift my jaw back and forth. Try a different tactic. "Please tell me what happened between you and Jordan. If it's something you're embarrassed about, I promise not to say anything. You can trust me."
Her body tenses and a shadow crosses her face. "Why would I be embarrassed?" she says slowly.
"You—you're not." I swallow hard and rework the words in my head. "I mean, you don't have to be. I swear, I would never judge you like that."
"You would never judge me like what?"
I wish she'd stop doing that, twisting every sentence I say, turning them into something they're not. "I would never judge you at all."
A vein fights to escape her neck, throbbing beneath her flesh. "You have no reason to judge me because I've done nothing wrong."
"I know you haven't. I'm just trying to understand."
"Hayes ..." Emma clucks her tongue, as if she's debating what to say. How to make me see the light. "There's nothing to understand. Someone took me against my will and now I'm home. Simple as that. All I want to do is move past it, but you won't fucking let me. You keep dragging Jordan into this, like there's something underhanded going on. But I promise you, there's not. What do I have to do to make you believe me?"
A wave of chills start at my scalp and ripple down the length of my body. I don't want to answer that question. If I do, I'll be stepping right into her trap. "Okay. If you say nothing weird happened, then I believe you."
"Good." She holds my gaze. "And we won't be having this conversation again?"
I shake my head. "Promise. Now will you tell me why you're here?"
Emma's face brightens. "Oh—of course!" She takes another step forward, but when I step back, my calves press against the bedside table. There's nowhere left for me to go. "I just wanted to tell you that I forgive you."
"For what?"
"For Smith, silly." Her shoulders relax as a giggle works its way from her mouth. "I forgive you for dating him."
And even after everything, a sense of relief swirls in my gut. "You do?"
"I do," she says with a nod. "You were right. It was wrong of me to expect that you wouldn't move on."
I'm not sure what to say. Thank you doesn't seem appropriate. After all, Smith isn't a trinket she possessed. A toy she let me have once she'd grown tired of it. He's an intelligent person who makes decisions for himself and acts upon them in the best ways he sees fit.
My head dips, my eyes moving away from hers. "I'm glad you understand. I never wanted to hurt you." My voice sounds small and distant in my ears.
"Of course you didn't—we're best friends!" Before I know what's happening, Emma's arms are around me, her pointy chin digging into my bare shoulder. When she pulls away, her expression settles into something like sympathy. "Promise you'll talk to me if you're ever feeling overwhelmed. I'm here for you, the same way I've always been. I just want you to be okay."
All I can do is nod.
Emma plants a kiss on my cheek before opening the window, letting in a blast of chilly night air. She slides onto the roof and closes it behind her, never saying goodbye.
I wait, listening for her footsteps across the clay tiles, the subtle leap onto the tree. But all I hear is my own heartbeat, thrashing against the inside of my skull.
When my parents divorced, I didn't see it coming. We were a happy family, living in the beautiful home my mother designed, nestled in a classy neighborhood, socializing with successful friends. The literal definition of a picture perfect life.
But I was wrong.
I was so focused on the good times that I refused to see the bad. Power plays between my parents. Short, yet numerous, bouts of stubborn silence. Waking up to occasional screaming matches in the middle of the night.
They sat me down one evening, after an impromptu trip to the State fair, and said they were splitting up.
It had nothing to do with me—"you're perfect and you make us proud and we love you unconditionally"—it was them. "As hard as we've tried to make our marriage work, it isn't, and now it's time to move on." Mom rubbed circles into my back as I sobbed in my father's lap, the constant flow of tears leaving damp splotches along his iron-pressed shirt.
From that moment on, their arguing ceased and a placid calm took over. Together, they created a joint custody schedule—who would have me and when—and the proceedings wrapped up in a tastefully decorated package with a fancy bow. Dad moved into a condo and, as per their arrangement, I went to visit him every other weekend. Alternating holidays, birthdays, school breaks, and three weeks in the summer. The rest of the time I lived with Mom.
And it worked. No more bickering behind closed doors, or one of them storming off to bed early in a fit of anger. No more stilted conversations, silent treatments, unforeseen tension. It's funny how you don't recognize those things until they're gone. I never realized my parents weren't happy until, finally, they were. And, to my surprise, I was happy too.
But something shifted inside of me.
With Dad out of the house and me and Mom alone, fear settled in like a virus and assumed my once secure life. Bad guys and burglars invaded my thoughts, thieves and murderers consuming every dream. It got to the point where I knew Mom and I were in danger, and it was up to me to protect us.
For some crazy reason, I didn't tell my parents how I felt. Maybe it was because I didn't want to scare them, or perhaps I was protecting them from the same worries in my head. Whatever it was, it was my burden to bear.
And bear it, I did. For months.
Dad met Meredith shortly after the separation, and it didn't take long before they were engaged. In my head, he was moving on while Mom and I were left behind. To me, everyone seemed happy, but I was scared. Scared for myself, and for my mom. For being stranded on our own.
One afternoon, while Mom was running errands, I came across a small box in her room. Though it was small enough to travel, I knew it was meant to hide in the shadows, behind the goose down comforter draped over her king-sized bed. It was gray and made of metal and had a place to insert a key. And I knew exactly where that key was—the funny-shaped one at the bottom of Mom's lingerie drawer.
It fit in the keyhole as I'd expected, and when the lid lifted, I wasn't scared. A small, black pistol sat cushioned in a gray compartment, the steel glinting in the rays of afternoon sunlight dancing along her bedroom walls.
The gun was cool as I turned it over in my hands, sending tingles of excitement along my skin. If I closed the box, left it exactly where I'd found it, Mom would never know it was gone.
And she didn't.
During the day, while I attended school, I'd wrap it in a nightgown and slide it under my bed. But at night, when my fears came to life, it stayed beneath my pillow, close enough to reach.
Having it in my possession worked. My sense of security surged and I wasn't as frightened as before. But when the insecurities finally crept back, they were even stronger. It wasn't a matter of if the bad guys were coming for us, it was when. And whenever that was, I'd be ready.
Then it happened, the single worst night of my life. The one I wish I could forget, but it lingers in my cells and capillaries, spreads like a cancer within my bones.
It was a Saturday in late April, and I'd gone to bed early. We didn't have an alarm system back then, only the locked windows and doors to separate us from the evil outside. I was tired that night, having played back to back soccer games in the afternoon, and fell into a deep sleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. But I awoke sometime later to heavy, undoubtedly male, footsteps marching up the stairs. I sat upright. Stared at the door.
This was it. The moment I'd been preparing for.
My grogginess dissolved as I reached for the weapon beneath my pillow. Understanding how the gun worked wasn't as difficult as one might think. After my online research, I'd learned that this particular weapon was simple to function. Anyone could do it ... including a child. It featured three separate safeties, one for pulling the trigger, another for the firing pin, and the last for drop safety. Lucky for me, the cartridge was loaded and the safeties off. Firing the pistol was as easy as pulling the trigger of a toy gun.
The footsteps moved down the hall, deliberate and menacing, slowing in front of my mother's room before advancing toward mine.
My breath paused, hovering like a storm cloud in my chest. "I can do this. I can do this. I can do this." I repeated the words until they became nothing more than a series of consonants and vowels.
With shaking hands, I grasped the gun between my fingers, and pointed it at my bedroom door. Waited.
I didn't have to wait long. As my door inched open, a familiar creak filled the darkened bedroom, until a black silhouette consumed the entire frame. It stood faceless, staring at my bed.
And this thing inside of me started to rise. I swallowed, counted to three, closed my eyes. And pulled. The explosion bounced off the walls, shattering the inside of my brain. There was so much screaming—too much screaming. Later, I learned it was me.
The bedroom light flipped on, illuminating my father's face; his widened blue eyes, and even wider mouth. Just above his head, a bullet hole gaped from the singed wallpaper, a puff of smoke and drywall smoldering around the edges.
"I didn't know he was coming over," Mom soothed, as they attempted to ease my crying. But the hysterics wouldn't stop. No matter what my parents said or did, I couldn't turn off my emotions.
Dad blamed himself. Not only for the divorce, but for starting over with someone new. For breaking up our family. That night, he'd caught Mom just as she'd been locking up the house to tell her in person that Meredith was pregnant and the date of their wedding had been moved up. Before he left, he wanted to kiss me goodnight.
It almost cost him his life.
A manic episode, that's what the doctors called it. Periods of increased paranoia and delusions, an abundance of irrational fears. It's common in undiagnosed manic-depressive psychosis.
Appointments abounded after that, discussions about my mental health, my insecurities. Whether I was a threat to myself or to my family. A short stint in the children's hospital to regulate my new treatments followed.
Recovery was long and exhausting, but like the millions of people who live with this disorder every day, with proper medication and visits with Dr. Wilder when I need them, I can live a normal life. A fulfilling and happy one, too.
And I have been—until recently.
What Emma said about my symptoms sneaking back, it's not true. I'm fine. Free from the unfounded fears of my past. I'm rational and level-headed, my mental health intact. It's not fair for her to throw what happened in my face. Make me question my beliefs. My sanity. Something more is going on with her, there has to be, and nothing she says will convince me otherwise.
Someone here is acting crazy. But this time—it isn't me.