Page 161 of Please Open Me
I kissed her forehead, grabbed my phone, and slipped into the hallway.
The screen still read Momma. Not surprising.
“Hiiii, Momma,” I purred, closing Sebby’s door behind me. “This better be good.”
I tried to sugarcoat it, but the syrup didn’t quite cover the sour.
“Sophia. You have ten minutes to get to my house,” she said, clipped and cold as ice.
My stomach did a slow, ugly flip. “But you live half an hour away—”
“Nine minutes,” she corrected. “If you’re not here, I’ll pass your file to the local authorities and let you rot in prison instead of serving the rest of your time with the organization.”
My mouth fell open. That was a nuclear-level threat. Reserved for agents who crossed the line so far even execution wasn’t enough.
“What?” I hissed, pinching the phone between my palm and cheek. “I’m not disobeying you by not killing Sebby—yousaid—”
“Eight,” she cut me off, like she had an invisible stopwatch counting down to my demise. “Seven. Be here.”
The line went dead.
No bargaining. No time for my messy little manipulation tactics.And while a big part of me wanted to see what would happen if I ignored her…
Mason was still in the room behind me. Skittish. Maybe scared.
Police at the door wouldn’t help—even if handcuffs were kind of hot.
This wasn’t a game.S.H.A.D.E. could ruin my life.And Momma didn’t make exceptions. She made examples.
So, even if I didn’t want to go, my decision was already made.
The drive to my childhood home felt longer than usual—despite the fact I somehow made it in under seven minutes. I didn’t stop for a single red light, stop sign, or even a stray frog hopping across the road.
Momma’s car was parked in its usual spot, and I slid in beside it, killed the engine, and ran inside. No knocking required.
My stomach dropped the second I realized how quiet the house was.
Normally, my childhood home was loud enough to rival my found family. My youngest sister, Alice, was still in high school and constantly had friends over. Mom was always in the kitchen, fussing at her to clean up, do her homework, get off the phone, something.
But now?
The air was heavy with the scent of bleach, and the silence was so thick it felt wrong. Hostile.
My steps padded along the white tiles, echoing off tan walls lined with family portraits as I crept toward the back of the house.
“Momma?” I called.
No response.
I paused, my pulse pounding in my ears. The office door was slightly ajar at the end of the hall. Warm light spilled out, casting shadows across the walls. Ireached out to steady myself, palm sliding along the cool beige paint as I crept forward like a burglar—not a daughter.
“Momma?” I tried again, softer this time.
My fingers trembled as I reached for the brass knob and slowly pushed the door open.
Relief washed through me when I saw her sitting at her desk.
For a second, everything felt normal. Papers sprawled across her desk in neat piles. Her favorite fountain pen resting on top. Her long black hair twisted into a tight bun. Her eyes locked on the monitor in front of her.
