Page 59 of Blurred Lines

I nod enthusiastically. "YES!"

As we exit the theater into the fading twilight, I feel a comforting lull seep into my bones.

"So," Caeleb says, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. "Who's up for some proper grub? No more stale popcorn for this guy."

"Speak for yourself," Finn retorts, "I could live on that stuff." But his mock gruffness doesn't hide his grin.

My stomach rumbles in agreement with Caeleb. The idea of warm, comforting food suddenly holds irresistible appeal. "Fish-and-chips?" I suggest. Nostalgia washes over me as I envision the weathered facade of my favorite seaside joint.

"The perfect solution," Silas chimes in. "Let's hit the road."

The drive is short, filled with a comfortable mix of banter and silence. Soon enough, we're pulling into the familiar gravel parking lot of the fish-and-chips shop. The salty tang of the air, mingled with the mouthwatering scent of fried goodness, fills my senses with a sense of anticipation.

"This chip is the size of my fist," I exclaim, holding it aloft for inspection. Crumbs cling to my fingers, evidence of my surrender to the comforting abundance of golden-fried goodness.

"A proper feast for a warrior queen," Finn agrees, his grin widening. "Though I'm starting to feel like I might need a nap after this."

Caeleb snorts. "You? Napping? What are you, eighty?" A playful elbow jab lands on Finn's ribs, prompting a round of good-natured shoving that sends cutlery clattering across the table. Silas, ever the sensible voice, shakes his head in mock disapproval.

"Honestly, you lot," he sighs, "behave yourselves. It's a wonder they even let us back in here." Yet, the smile playing on his lips contradicts his chastising tone.

The camaraderie surrounding me is like a balm, a much-needed respite from the constant barrage of worries. Tonight, we're not grappling with sabotaged vineyards or faceless corporations; we're just friends, enjoying a simple, no-frills meal and the comfort of familiar company.

The rest of the evening follows this pattern of easy comfort. Between mouthfuls of flaky fish, the conversation flows. We banter about Emberton, the sleepy little town we all returned to, the pull of the ever-present sea, and the ridiculous escapades of our childhood. Laughter fills the air, rich and warm. It washes over me, dissolving the tension that has become my constant companion.

With reluctance, we finally settle the bill. Night has fallen, wrapping the world in a velvety blue cloak. The air carries the distinctive saltiness of the coast, and the distant rumble of waves serves as a continuous soundtrack. My heart feels lighter than it has in ages as we walk back to the car.

"This was… nice," I say, my voice barely a whisper above the soft crunch of gravel underfoot.

"Yeah," Caeleb agrees, the single word laced with an unspoken weight. His eyes meet mine briefly in the dim light, and an unfamiliar warmth blossoms in my chest. I quickly look away, flustered by the intensity in his gaze.

At the mansion, the others bid me goodnight, promises of more problem-solving tomorrow hanging in the air. I linger for a moment outside the imposing front door, savoring the cool night air on my skin. This place—so steeped in history and secrets—has never felt more like home. But as I turn the key, a sliver of unease whispers through me. It's a fleeting sensation, gone as quickly as it came.

Inside, the mansion is quiet, the shadows stretching long and deep. I make my way to the kitchen, the familiar space offering a sense of normalcy. An envelope waits on the counter, the stark scarlet color a jarring intrusion against the white marble. My stomach twists with apprehension …

With a trembling hand, I tear it open. Inside, a single sheet of paper, adorned with a crude message scrawled in messy capitals:

I KNOW WHAT YOU DID. BACK OFF OR ELSE.

Shock turns my limbs cold. My eyes fixate on the Polaroid nestled beneath the note. It's Caeleb and me in the vineyard. I'd held on to a thin thread of hope that this wouldn't be true, that the shadowy figure was a figment of our imaginations.

Someone has been watching us, documenting our every move. Panic claws its way up my chest, choking out my breath. This isn't just about sabotage, this is personal. I grip the edge of the counter, trying to regain my composure. The world tilts dangerously as a wave of nausea crashes over me, sudden and merciless. I'm on my feet before I can process the motion, my body operating on a primal instinct to flee. The room spins, a disorienting blur of colors and shapes as I stagger toward the sanctuary of the bathroom.

My hand slams against the wall, steadying myself for a moment before I lurch forward, propelled by the urgent need to expel the sickness within. The cold tile under my palms is a stark contrast to the heat radiating from my skin, a beacon guiding me in my moment of distress.

I barely make it before my stomach convulses, surrendering to the violent spasms. The sound of my own retching echoes off the walls, a grotesque symphony that fills the small space. Again and again, my body rebels, each wave of nausea hitting harder than the last, until there's nothing left but the bitter taste of bile and the hollow ache of emptiness.

Leaning back against the cool bath, I slide to the floor, the chill seeping through my clothes, offering a vague sense of relief. Sweat beads on my forehead as I struggle to catch my breath, the world still spinning on its axis.

The suddenness of the attack leaves me bewildered, questions swirling in my mind with nowhere to land. What caused this? Why now? My body trembles, a leaf caught in an unseen storm, as the realization dawns that this might be more than just a simple bout of sickness.

Fingers trembling, I draw out my phone to check the date on the calendar. With how occupied I've been, this possibility just didn't make it to my mind. How could it, with my past?

But there it is, sure as day. It's been two weeks since I should have had my period.

25

EMILY

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