Chapter 4
Emma did not move.
She stood at the top of the stairs, heart slamming against her ribs, listening to the faint creak of the porch boards below. The light outside spilled through the front windows, stretching long shadows across the living room floor.
Someone was there.
Her mother’s voice drifted up from downstairs, light and polite. “Can I help you?”
A woman answered. Calm. Pleasant.
“Yes, actually. I’m looking for Emma Thornway.”
Emma’s fingers dug into the banister.
Madeline.
Her name carried a strange weight now—sharp, polished, dangerous. Emma forced herself to breathe evenly as she descended the stairs, each step measured, controlled.
Madeline stood just inside the doorway, hands clasped loosely in front of her. She wore a soft sweater and jeans, hair pulled back neatly. She could have been anyone. She could have been harmless.
But her eyes flicked to Emma with unmistakable intent.
“There she is,” Madeline said, smiling. “Hi, Emma.”
Her mother glanced between them. “Do you two know each other?”
“Yes,” Madeline replied smoothly. “We went to school together.”
Emma swallowed. “Briefly.”
Madeline laughed. “That’s one way to put it.”
Something in her tone made Emma’s skin prickle.
“I’ll just be a minute,” Madeline said to Emma’s mother. “We’re old acquaintances.”
Her mother hesitated, then nodded. “Of course. Emma, you can talk on the porch.”
Outside, the evening air was cool, deceptively peaceful. Crickets chirped in the grass. Somewhere down the street, a dog barked.
Madeline turned to face her fully.
“You look well,” she said. “College suits you.”
Emma folded her arms. “What do you want?”
Madeline’s smile didn’t waver. “I wanted to see you for myself.”
“For what reason?”
“To understand,” she said. “Harry has… interesting taste.”
Emma flinched before she could stop herself.
Madeline noticed.
“Oh,” she murmured. “Still sensitive.”
Anger sparked, hot and immediate. “You don’t get to come here and—”
“—and what?” Madeline interrupted gently. “Remind you of who you were?”
Emma’s jaw tightened. “Who I am.”
Madeline stepped closer, invading her space. “Do you really think he’s going to choose you?”
Emma held her ground. “He said he was ending it.”
Madeline tilted her head. “He said that?”
“Yes.”
A pause.
Then Madeline laughed.
Not loud. Not cruel. Just… knowing.
“He said the same thing three years ago,” she said. “And two years before that.”
Emma’s stomach dropped.
“You’re a distraction,” Madeline continued. “A summer indulgence. He’ll get bored.”
“Leave,” Emma said, voice shaking now. “You don’t belong here.”
Madeline’s eyes hardened. “Oh, Emma. This is exactly where I belong.”
She stepped back, her smile returning. “I just wanted you to know—I’m not the kind of person who loses.”
She turned and walked down the steps, pausing once at the bottom.
“And neither are you,” she added softly. “That’s what makes this interesting.”
Harry didn’t answer Emma’s calls that night.
Or the next morning.
By afternoon, dread coiled tight in her chest.
She found him at the store, pale and tense, eyes darting toward the door every time it opened.
“She came to my house,” Emma said without preamble.
His face drained of color. “She what?”
“She threatened me.”
“I told her it was over,” he said quickly. “I swear. She’s just… having trouble letting go.”
Emma stared at him. “You don’t believe that.”
He looked away.
“I can handle her,” he said. “Just give me time.”
Time.
Always time.
That night, Emma dreamed of hallways—long and narrow, lined with lockers that slammed shut one by one as she passed. Laughter echoed from somewhere behind her, chasing, closing in.
She woke with her heart racing.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand.
A message from an unknown number.
Unknown: You shouldn’t have come back.
Emma sat up, pulse roaring.
Another message followed.
Unknown: Some girls never learn when to stay quiet.
Her hands shook as she typed.
Emma: Stop.
Three dots appeared.
Then vanished.
Her window creaked.
Emma froze.
Slowly, she turned her head.
The curtain fluttered, though the night air was still.
And pressed against the glass—just for a second—was the unmistakable outline of a hand.
