Page 13 of Shadowed Hearts: Frost
The wall of noise hits me before I even step inside. Cousins arguing over basketball scores, aunties gossiping in rapid Tagalog, my dad's booming laugh cutting through it all. I smooth down my sensible navy blue dress for the fifth time, standing frozen on my parents' front porch.
My thumb swipes across BB-8's screen again, the custom tracking program cycling through its search sequences for Asher's location data.
Steady green light. Still functioning perfectly.
You got this. Just be Vanessa Reyes, dutiful daughter. Not Echo, the hacker who's helping trafficking victims.
My thumb hovers over the notification panel before I reluctantly tuck the phone into my purse. I've polished all my responses about working at the coffee shop.
Yes, creating fancy lattes brings me joy. No, stepping away from my computer science program doesn't mean my skills go unused. Yes, I'm building a nest egg for future education.
All lies carefully constructed to mask the truth about what I really do with my technical skills.
I tug at my dress collar, suddenly feeling like it's choking me despite being perfectly loose. The version of myself I present here feels like an ill-fitting costume: the Perfect Filipino Daughter who definitely isn't breaking federal laws on a weekly basis.
Dark eyes flash across my memory. Asher. His military posture. The way he scanned the room before settling into his seat. The danger radiating from him that should repel me, not make my skin prickle with awareness.
"Stop it," I whisper, putting my arms down at my sides. "Focus."
The warm scent of my mom's kare-kare—rich oxtail stew in peanut sauce—drifts through the screen door, making my stomach grumble. At least the food will be worth the interrogation that awaits me inside.
I lift my hand to knock, but freeze when the dark intensity of Asher's gaze intrudes into my thoughts again. There was something both terrifying and thrilling about the way he looked at me, like he was assessing a potential threat while also seeing something more.
My heart rate picks up, beating faster in a way that reminds me of those intense moments when I'm cracking a particularly difficult computer security system.
My fingers twitch with the urge to pull my phone back out, to check if his location has changed, to see if the programs I have running have discovered anything new. But my family is waiting, and—
The front door swings open before my knuckles can make contact.
"Anak! Why are you standing out here? Everyone is waiting!" My mother's voice slices through my thoughts, her petite frame blocking the doorway, eyebrows raised in a way thatsimultaneously communicates love and judgment. Her bright coral blouse catches the porch light as she reaches for me.
Mom yanks me into the dining room, her tiny hand clamping my arm with surprising strength. I'm immediately engulfed by the rich kitchen aromas—the sharp tang of garlic, vinegar's bite, and the sweet creaminess of coconut milk floating through the air.
Before I can take another breath, my relatives swarm around me in a chaotic wave of embraces, fingers pinching my cheeks, and an avalanche of questions fired at me all at once.
"Vanessa! Kumusta na—how are you? You're so skinny—are you eating?"
"Still at that coffee shop? Your Professor Wells from MIT still asks about you!"
"No boyfriend yet? Your cousin Teresa is already engaged!"
I paste on my practiced smile while my brain struggles to track the bombardment. I stare at our dinner table, practically sagging from all the hot food spread across the burgundy tablecloth. Mom's gone all out tonight with plates of everything steaming and ready to eat.
Crispy lumpia, fragrant chicken adobo, bright pancit canton noodles, and my mom's famous kare-kare. My belly rumbles with hunger while my brain automatically maps every possible way out of this place, a reflex I picked up after my first narrow escape from the feds.
"Sit, sit!" My mom steers me toward the empty chair between my older brother Miguel—Kuya Migs to me—and my sister Ate Kaela. "Everyone's been waiting."
I squeeze into my seat, immediately reaching for my water glass to have something to do with my hands. The table is set with the formal white china and gleaming silver serving spoons that only emerge for special occasions.
Family photos smile down from cream-colored walls: graduations, weddings, birthdays; a timeline of Reyes family achievements. I've upgraded their home security system twice without telling them, installing monitors that would make government agencies jealous.
"So, Vanessa." My mother's voice carries that special tone reserved for public disappointment. "Your Tita Gloria was just asking about your work."
I crumple my napkin under the table, my fingers automatically folding it into smaller and smaller triangles.
"The coffee shop is good. I'm getting promoted to shift supervisor next month."
My mother's sigh could power a small wind turbine. "Such potential. The youngest ever accepted to MIT's advanced computing program... and now making coffee."
