Chapter 5
Emma did not scream.
She sat frozen on the edge of her bed, eyes locked on the window, waiting for the outline of the hand to return. Her heart pounded so loudly she was certain it would give her away. The curtain swayed once more, gently, mockingly—then stilled.
Nothing happened.
Minutes passed. Maybe longer. Time stretched thin and strange.
Finally, she forced herself to move. Slowly. Quietly. She reached for the lamp and flicked it on. Warm light flooded the room, banishing the shadows.
The window was empty.
No hand. No face. Just her reflection staring back at her, pale and wide-eyed.
She laughed softly, shakily. You’re imagining things. That’s what quiet girls did best—turn nothing into terror, convince themselves the world was bigger and crueler than it really was.
Still, she locked the window.
And the door.
By morning, she had convinced herself it was overreaction. A trick of the light. A bad dream bleeding into waking life. Madeline was cruel, yes—but not reckless. Not stupid.
Emma showered, dressed, and tried to reclaim normalcy. She read in the backyard beneath the maple tree, the familiar weight of a book grounding her. The cicadas buzzed. The world carried on.
Her phone buzzed mid-paragraph.
Harry: We need to talk.
Her fingers hovered over the screen.
Emma: About what?
The response took longer than usual.
Harry: About last night. About everything.
They agreed to meet after closing, at the store.
Emma arrived just as the sun dipped low, the windows glowing amber. The bell chimed when she stepped inside. Harry stood behind the counter, shoulders hunched, eyes shadowed.
“She came to your house,” he said immediately. “I didn’t know she would do that.”
“You didn’t stop her,” Emma replied.
He flinched. “I tried.”
She studied him, really studied him, and saw the truth etched into the lines of his face—conflict without resolution. Want without courage.
“Are you ending it?” she asked.
He exhaled. “I told her I needed space.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I’m trying not to hurt anyone.”
Emma smiled faintly. “You already have.”
Silence fell between them, thick and heavy.
“I can’t keep doing this,” she said finally.
His head snapped up. “Emma—”
“I won’t be your secret,” she continued. “And I won’t wait while you decide which life you want.”
He stepped closer. “I choose you.”
The words came too quickly.
“Then prove it,” she said.
He hesitated.
Just for a moment.
But that moment was enough.
Madeline struck the next day.
Emma found her car first.
A deep scratch ran along the side, jagged and deliberate, cutting through the paint like a wound. Her breath caught as she followed it from door to door.
Tucked under the windshield wiper was a folded note.
Careful, it read. Accidents happen.
Emma’s hands went cold.
She drove straight to Harry.
He paled when he saw the car. “She wouldn’t—”
“She would,” Emma said quietly. “And she did.”
Harry ran a hand through his hair. “I’ll talk to her. Tonight. I’ll make it final.”
Emma searched his face, looking for resolve.
“Tonight,” she echoed.
“Yes.”
Something inside her settled, calm and sharp.
She didn’t go home afterward.
Instead, Emma walked the long way through town, past places that had once felt small and cruel. The school. The bleachers. The alley behind the gym.
Memories surfaced unbidden—laughter that wasn’t kind, whispers that followed her down halls, the way Madeline’s voice used to carry just far enough to sting.
Some girls never learn when to stay quiet.
Emma stopped walking.
She stood very still, breathing in the evening air.
Then she smiled.
That night, Harry called just before midnight.
“I told her,” he said, voice tight. “It’s over. She didn’t take it well.”
“Are you safe?” Emma asked.
“I think so.”
There was a pause.
“She said something strange,” he added.
Emma’s grip tightened on the phone. “What?”
“She said I’d regret choosing you.”
Emma closed her eyes. “She’s trying to scare you.”
“Yeah,” he said, though he didn’t sound convinced. “Can I come over?”
“No,” Emma said. “Meet me.”
“Where?”
“The footbridge,” she replied. “Now.”
Emma arrived first.
The river whispered beneath the bridge, dark and slow. The moon hung low, casting silver across the water. She leaned against the railing, waiting.
Footsteps approached.
But they were too light.
Too measured.
Emma turned.
Madeline stood at the edge of the bridge, eyes bright, smile sharp.
“You didn’t think he’d come alone,” she said softly.
Emma’s pulse spiked. “Where’s Harry?”
Madeline stepped closer.
“Oh, Emma,” she said. “You should really stop trusting people.”
Behind her, somewhere in the dark, something crashed—glass shattering, metal screeching.
Emma spun toward the sound.
And screamed his name.
