Page 98 of Hidden Echoes

He quiets all the noises.

Zane’s home in Dallas is comforting in a way—not quite freedom, but better than Los Angeles, for sure. Still, I’m not leaving. I can’t.

The thought of running into my father makes my chest tighten, makes my stomach knot itself into something sharp. The chances of that happening here are so much higher, and I don’t want to risk it.

I don’t want to cause trouble. There’s still so much about me that Zane doesn’t know, and I’m not sure I’m ready to tell him.

The doorbell rings.

My pulse stumbles.

Maybe coming back to Texas was a mistake. Maybe my father has already found me. Shit.

Part of me is relieved that Zane isn’t home—something about Charlie needing him.

I didn’t pay much attention when he explained—I was too busy stuffing my face with popcorn and getting lost in the K-drama he’d recommended, about a girl who swapped lives with her doppelgänger.

I started binging it yesterday, and now I can't stop watching.

Zane knows good stuff.

He had been sketching beside me, like he always did whenever I put something on—a quiet, easy rhythm. I didn’t think much of it then. But now, I miss it. I had gotten used to having him next to me, even when we were lost in our own worlds.

I should text him.

The doorbell rings again, harder this time.

I exhale slowly and grab the knife I used to cut an apple, then make my way to the door. Peeking through the crack, I open it just enough to see her.

A blonde woman stands there, and everything about her screams danger.

Her hair hangs in greasy strands, dark roots long overdue for a touch-up.

Her skin has that sickly, yellowed hue—dry, dull, lifeless. Her sunken, bloodshot eyes blink slow, like she’s halfway gone already. And then the smell hits me—cheap cigarettes, sweat, something stale underneath.

“Who are you?” I ask, keeping the door ajar.

She licks her chapped lips, her gaze sweeping over me with an interest I don’t like.

“Who are you?” she echoes, her voice rasping. Then she gives me a crooked grin, yellowed teeth peeking through. “You don’t look like one of Zane’s bitches.”

I go still.

She knows Zane. From where?

My grip tightens around the knife handle.

“I’m his wife.”

If she was expecting any answer, it wasn’t that. Her eyes widen for a second before she lets out a short, hoarse laugh—one filled with disbelief.

“Oh, so little Zane finally found himself a woman?” She crosses her arms, shaking her head. “Always thought he was the sissy of my kids. Never would’ve guessed he’d have the balls to get married.”

The words land like poison, twisting something deep in my chest. Zane isn’t weak. He never has been. And then it clicks. The comment doesn’t just sting—it curdles, goes sour like spoiled milk.

This is his mother.

She doesn’t look much like him. Maybe Zane takes after his father. Either way, I don’t loosen my grip on the knife.

---