Page 153 of Requiem
Mom: We love you. Please remember that.
Dad: Whatever happens, we’re here.
A photo from Vanessa follows underneath. My little sister is sitting cross-legged on the back porch with Mom, wearing one of my old Dissonance hoodies, holding up a handmade sign that says:
You’re an asshole, but you’re my asshole. Come home.
Despite everything, a laugh escapes me.
Emma glances up. “Your family?”
I nod once. “Yeah.”
“How are they?”
I stare at the screen for another second before locking my phone. “Trying really hard not to panic, I think.”
She smiles faintly at that before her attention drifts back down toward her own messages. “My parents keep asking if I’m eating.”
“I imagine I permanently scarred your mom when you sent her a picture of those burnt pancakes,” I murmur with a grin. “She said that I could never be the chef in the house.”
“Mm.” Her thumb scrolls absently. “My mom threatened to fly here if I don’t answer within an hour.”
“She’d fit right in with Heather.”
That finally earns me a tiny laugh, even if it fades too quickly.
I watch her for a second longer before stepping out onto the balcony.
Cold air hits me, sharp enough to sting my lungs as Manhattan stretches endlessly below. The city feels alive in a way I can’t relate to anymore. People are still moving around down there. Laughing. Going to dinners. Falling in love like in those romcoms I used to enjoy watching.
I light a cigarette with slightly shaking fingers. The first inhale burns.
Inside, Emma changes into one of my hoodies and soft sleep shorts. The television flickers against the dark hotel room walls, filling the silence enough that neither of us has to.
Then suddenly, the channel changes.
I glance back through the glass just in time to catch a flash of my own face on-screen before it disappears. Press coverage.
Emma stares at the remote afterward, shoulders tightening beneath the oversized hoodie. Something about it twists painfully inside my chest. Because she shouldn’t have to flinch every time she sees me attached to words like investigation, murder, and trafficking.
I crush the cigarette out harder than necessary. When I step back inside, she’s sitting cross-legged against the headboard now, staring at her phone again. I move quietly toward the bathroom to change, stripping out of my clothes slowly while exhaustion drags heavily through every inch of me. Bruises fade across my ribs now, thankfully. Hope flares inside me for a moment when I think about the fact that my body shouldn’t ever be subjected to that level of violence again.
By the time I pull on sweatpants and step back into the room, Emma’s crying. She’s staring down at her phone while tears slide over her cheeks, her mouth trembling faintly like she’s trying not to let the sound out.
Panic grabs me instantly. “Em?”
She shakes her head quickly before holding the phone out toward me, and my heart clenches.
Nova.
Mrs. Kent must’ve sent the photo recently. The black dog is sprawled dramatically across the grass, tongue hanging out one side of her mouth while her bright brown eyes practicallyglowwith happiness. Her fur looks shiny in the sunlight.
“Oh,” Emma whispers brokenly. “I miss her.”
I climb carefully into bed beside her, pulling the blankets over us both before gently taking the phone from her trembling hands. I set it on the nightstand and carefully pull her against me.
Emma folds into my chest the moment she settles, her face burying against my neck while tears continue slipping free. I kiss the top of her head, fingers smoothing gently through her hair.
