Page 96 of Picture Perfect

We're halfway to the Winthrop estate, silence our uneasy companion, when Chess’s phone erupts with a frantic melody. He fumbles for it, a flicker of concern crossing his features as he glances at the screen before pressing it to his ear.

"Hey."

I strain to listen, but the caller's words are lost to me, drowned out by the persistent hum of the engine and the rush of wind outside. However, the tone is unmistakable—a desperate pitch, feminine and laced with panic. Chess's hazel eyes darken, knuckles whitening on the steering wheel.

"Tranquila, tranquila," he murmurs, a softness to his voice that's meant to soothe. "I'm on my way."

Chess's shoulder tightens, the muscles beneath his shirt coiling like springs wound too tight. His voice contrasts with the tension in his body. "I promise, I'll be there as soon as I can," he reassures the caller.

He ends the call, his thumb lingering on the disconnect button as if to hold onto the connection a second longer. The atmosphere in the car shifts, charged with a new urgency, and I'm left grasping at fragments, trying to piece together the puzzle of Chess’s life beyond the halls of our dark high school.

I realize I don't actually know anything about him. About any of them. I've never made the effort to try.

Chess's gaze flickers to me, his hazel eyes a stormy mix of worry and resolve.

"Addy, I need to make a stop at my place," he says, voice steady despite the earlier urgency. "It's not on the way, it's pretty damn for out of the way actually, so I can drop you off first if—"

"No." The word is out before I've even considered it. "Whoever that was... they need you now. It would take you at least twenty minutes out of your way to drop me off and then head back."

Chess studies me for a moment, the corners of his eyes softening. "Are you sure?" he asks, even though we both know my mind's made up.

"Absolutely."

A silent nod is his gratitude, and he steers the car into a sharp turn, away from the route leading to the Winthrop estate and towards uncertainty. I watch his profile, the way his jaw sets with determination, a glimpse into the depths of Francesco Ortega that few are privy to.

"Thank you, Addy," he murmurs, and I see the boy who hides his burdens behind a smile, the scholarship student who bears the weight of worlds on his shoulders. In this moment, in this car, we share an unspoken bond, one tempered by secrets and sealed with trust.

The landscape changes as Chess navigates through the streets, each turn leading us deeper into a part of town that feels worlds away from the manicured lawns of the Winthrop estate. I watch, feeling like an intruder, as we pass homes that clutch desperately to their last bits of paint, and yards where gardens have surrendered to weeds.

"Sorry about all this," Chess says, his voice carrying an edge of embarrassment I've never heard before. "It's not... well, you're safe with me, okay?"

I glance at him, his profile etched with concern, and shake my head. "I know I am," I respond softly, reaching out to place a hand on his thigh, seeking to reassure him. His hand covers mine instantly, his grip firm. It's a lifeline, a promise without words.

The car rolls to a stop in front of a small bungalow that has seen better days. The curtains are drawn tight, the paint is peeling, but it's clear someone inside cares enough to keep things going.

And there she is, a young girl pacing anxiously on the front walk. Her movements are erratic, her arms flailing as if batting away invisible obstacles. Even from a distance, her resemblance to Chess is striking—the same olive skin, the same dark, expressive eyes.

"Is that your sister?" I can't help the surprise in my voice. Chess nods, his face softening at the sight of her.

"Yeah, that's Carmen," he says. I had no idea he had a sister.

"I don't know much at all," I murmur more to myself than to him.

Chess turns off the engine and finally releases my hand, but the warmth lingers. "I just need to check on her," he says, a protective fierceness replacing the worry in his eyes. "You can stay here, it's okay."

"Of course I'm coming. Unless you don't want me to."

"No. No, that's fine."

As we approach Carmen, I ready myself to step into another piece of the puzzle that is Francesco Ortega, uncertain of what I'll find but resolute in standing by his side.

Carmen's words spill out in a frantic mix of English and Spanish, her hands fluttering like trapped birds. I catch the gist of it—"sangre" and "miedo"—my Spanish is rudimentary at best, but I recognize blood and fear. My heart clenches for her; I know this panic all too well.

"Hey, hey, it's okay," I say, reaching out to steady her shoulders. She looks up at me, eyes wide and brimming with tears. I don't need fluent Spanish to understand. The terror of the unknown doesn't need translation.

"Chess, she's just scared," I explain, my voice low so Carmen doesn't feel talked about as if she isn't there. "But, there's nothing to be scared of, I promise. You're just becoming a woman." Chess's eyes widen, his cheeks tinge with a hue of helplessness. He nods, taking a step back, giving us space.

"Lo siento, Carmen. I can help you," I tell her, dredging up my high school Spanish. My own memories surface unbidden—the sting of isolation in a foster home's bathroom, the confusion, the fear. No one should face that alone.

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