Page 5 of Dark Embers

Present Day

Fridays are always the same. Drop Elena off, rush to work, dance, make rent, survive. Repeat.

I pull into my mother’s driveway, tires crunching over the gravel before I cut the engine. It’s already dark, and the porch light glows softly against the evening haze. Normally, my mother is at the door before I even step out of the car. But tonight? Nothing.

My nerves bristle.

I shove open the door, stepping into the cool night air. The baby carrier is secured in the backseat, Elena half-asleep inside it, her tiny hands curled into fists. Two overstuffed baby bags are slung over my shoulder as I juggle her weight, nudging the car door closed with my hip.

“Mom!” I call, stepping inside without knocking. My childhood home smells the same—cinnamon from the candles she always burns, and a faint trace of wine.

No answer.

I shift Elena’s seat higher in my grip and storm through the house. “Mom!”

A voice answers, but it’s not hers.

“Hey, Sabrina.”

I pause mid-step, turning toward the sound. Mark Dalton, my mother’s live-in boyfriend, steps into view from the back of the house. A faded T-shirt clings to his lean frame, and his hair is damp like he’s just showered.

“She’s on the patio,” he says. “Taking a call.”

A call? That’s unusual. My mother doesn’t take calls when I drop off Elena. Ever. In fact my mother barely takes calls at all because she hates technology. She calls it the devil disguised in flashy covers tempting people.

Something prickles at the back of my neck.

“Who is she talking to?” I ask, handing Elena off to Mark and kissing my daughter’s soft cheek. “Bye, baby.”

“Hey, princess,” Mark coos, rocking her slightly. Elena makes a small sound in response, nestling against him.

I hesitate, watching the way Mark interacts with her. It’s hard to believe he’s the same man who was spiraling not long ago. After he got his trading license reinstated and gave up drinking, he started resembling the man I remembered—the one my best friend, Leigh, once admired before everything fell apart.

“She’s talking to that private detective.”

The words hit me like a freight train.

My fingers tighten around the straps of the baby bags. “What?”

Mark shifts, clearing his throat. “There was a sighting of Tara in Los Angeles.”

The air is sucked from my lungs.

“What?” I repeat, louder this time.

Before he can answer, I abandon the bags on the kitchen counter and push through the back door. The moment I step onto the patio, my mother is lowering her phone. She looks up, and the flickering light from the citronella candles casts shadows across her face.

“Has the detective found anything?” My voice comes out sharper than I intended.

Carla exhales, rubbing her temple. “Hello to you too, Sabrina.” She kisses my cheek in greeting before gesturing toward her phone. “Tara was seen on the UCLA campus.”

I freeze.

“What?”

She hands me her phone. My pulse pounds as I take it, my fingers trembling slightly as I stare at the screen. The photo is grainy, the woman’s profile barely visible as she moves through a crowded walkway. Blonde hair catches the light, a sharp contrast to the deep shadow covering her face.

“This isn’t Tara,” I whisper. “Tara isn’t blonde.”

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