Page 12 of Curse

“It’s just unimaginable. I can’t even comprehend all this right now. And you must just be…” Her voice trails off, and she shakes her head, speaking in a hoarse whisper.

I can’t speak, but I nod slowly. She knows without me having to say anything, and its heart wrenchingly gratifying to finally see someone have the appropriate response to theloss of Emily.

Sophie takes some of the plastic bags in my arms and gasps. “The scarf!” She looks at me and shakes her head, wiping away tears. “Come on, come back to my office.”

She leads me through the tiny bustling kitchen to her cramped office at the back, a chaotic masterpiece of clutter that’s so quintessentially Sophie. The air smells like simmering tomatoes and fresh basil, a sizzling hum of activity surrounding us as cooks shout orders and pans clatter.

Her office is its own kind of storm: a tangle of open books, scribbled-on napkins, notebooks bursting with ideas, and recipes scrawled on the backs of receipts. It’s a mess, sure, but it’s also alive with her energy.

Sophie never stops tinkering with The Vault’s menu, spinning fresh twists on the Italian dishes we grew up with, her creativity constantly bubbling over like a pot left too long on the stove.

I can’t help but smile. This chaos, this passion—it’s so her. I love Sophie, and I love the wild, beautiful way her mind works.

“Wow, Soph. You cleaned up!” I joke with a laugh, sinking into the chair behind her desk.

A cup teeters precariously on a stack of books, and I grab it before it can fall, spinning around in circles in the chair, looking for a place to set it down. The whole desk looks like it’s one gust of wind away from collapsing in on itself.

Sophie grins, leaning her curvy body over the desk as she clears a small space for my bags. She’s short like I am and she doesn’t wear heels at work, so it’s a reach. It reminds me of how I must have looked leaning over the edge of that jacked up pickup truck at the lake.

“I know, right? I’m known for my organizational skills.”

Her humor fades as she rests a hand on my arm, her gaze steady and warm. Sophie has always been the heart of the cousins, the sweetest of all of us. There’s a quiet strength in her that is achingly familiar, and her energy, the light that comes with being in her space, is exactly what I need right now.

“You take your time, okay? Whatever you need, I’m here,” she says softly.

I nod, not trusting myself to speak, and she squeezes my arm before leaving me alone in the cluttered little room.

The silence weighs heavily, but it’s a relief. I reach for the plastic bag and pull out the makeup case, the familiar vinyl cool in my hands. Clearing a patch on the desk, I smooth out the bag and roll the case open on top of it. The green scorched vinyl catches the light, and my throat tightens.

Emily’s things. Tangible. Broken. But here.

I start unzipping the little pockets, one by one, each tiny compartment holding a piece of Emily’s world. A hair clip. Lipstick. A set of makeup brushes. Each discovery brings a twist of the knife. My chest tightens, and I bite down hard on my lip.

Keep going. Just keep going.

A roll of twenties tucked neatly into one pocket. A photograph of Nigel, her English bulldog, his lopsided grin frozen forever. And then something small, something dark and wrapped in layers of thick, clear plastic.

I hesitate before peeling it open, each layer of plastic revealing nothing but more wrapping. My hands shake as I unroll it, and after what seems like forever, a small black flash drive tumbles into my lap.

My heart pounds as I turn to Sophie’s computer. Sliding into the chair, I plug in the flash drive and watch as the folder loads. A single video pops up on the screen. No documents, no photos, just one video file.

The thumbnail freezes me in place: a man tied to a chair, his face twisted in fear. My finger hovers over the trackpad before I finally click.

The video starts, grainy and dim. The man struggles against the ropes that are biting into his arms, his mouth moving as if yelling, but no sound comes through the speakers. I crank the volume to max, but it’s eerily silent.

A figure steps out of the shadows behind him, wide and solid, a gun glinting in his hand. He presses it to the back of the man’s head, saying something I can’t hear. Then there’s a flash of light from the gun.

The man jerks forward, head lolling, his chin slumping to his chest. Blood trickles down his face from the dark hole in his forehead. The camera captures his lifeless eyes staring blankly forward.

The killer moves into the light, his features sharp and unforgettable: bad toupee, a big hooked nose, thick bushy eyebrows, fleshy, pockmarked cheeks, and a scar that carves up his jaw like a jagged fault line. He stares into the lens, says something inaudible, and then the video freezes and the screen goes black.

It’s only a few minutes long. I replay it, searching the shadows for something, anything, that might give me more context.

The background is stark: a cavernous room with a concrete wall rising behind them, smooth and unbroken. The floor is gray cement, cold and lifeless, illuminated by the faint glow ofa wrought iron lamp on the left-hand side of the screen that reflects off another concrete wall dotted with heavy, metal shackles on the right side.

Nothing. No clues, no answers. Just a dead man and the ghost of Emily’s secrets staring back at me.

Why would she have this video? Did she know these men? Did Mikey? Is this video the reason that she and Mikey were on the run? Were murdered?

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