Page 58 of Wilde Secrets

“What are you making?”

He looked down at the bowl. “Omelet. Is that okay?”

“Sounds delicious.”

While he cooked, Harper sat and watched, enjoying watching him move confidently around the kitchen. When they’d eaten—Harper deciding it was the best breakfast she’d ever had—she insisted on cleaning up.

“You cooked; I do the dishes. It’s only fair,” she said, pushing him gently on the arm to get him to leave the kitchen.

“Alright. I know when I’m fighting a losing battle,” he joked, hands up in mock surrender.

Logan grabbed his coffee and pulled one of the stools out from the island, settling in to keep her company as she worked.

“Harper?”

“Hmm?” She was mid-way through attacking the dishwasher and looked up to see him staring down at her phone, a frown on his face. “What’s up?”

He looked up and pointed at her phone. “Have you checked your phone this morning?”

She’d left it downstairs the night before. The battery was dead when she’d checked it so she’d plugged it in to charge while they ate breakfast.

“No, why?” She straightened, a feeling of foreboding making her stomach turn.

“You might want to look at this.” Logan slid it across the counter toward her.

Harper took the few steps to bring her to the island, gripping the edge tightly with her hands to stop them shaking.

It didn’t matter how much she told herself it was just a phone—that it couldn’t hurt her—she still had the odd feeling that if she touched it, something bad—maybe worse—would happen. Again.

She reached out with shaking fingers and touched the now black screen, waking it from sleep.

“Oh shit.”

She shot a look at Logan, who mirrored her grim expression.

“How can I have that many messages? It was only off for…” she trailed off.

How long had her phone been off? Surely not even 12 hours.

She unplugged the phone and picked it up, unlocking the screen and swiping to see the missed calls.

How had she missed all these calls?

Harper stared at the screen of her phone dazedly, sitting down with a thump on one of the stools at the island.

She jumped when one of Logan’s hands landed on her shoulder.

“Sorry,” she said absently as she scrolled through the voicemails. All from her father, except one. That one was from King’s number. She hit play. Isla’s voice flowed from the tiny speaker, Harper sagging onto one of the kitchen stools in relief.

Whatever he says, don’t believe it. I’m ok. Love you more than a chocolate shake with sprinkles.

Harper’s eyes filled with tears.

Something loosened in her chest, and she turned toward Logan, who had come to stand next to her, burying her head against his stomach and wrapping her hands around his waist. Her chest heaved as she sobbed in relief. Isla was OK.

After their mom had died—and their father had been lost in grief—the girls would take their bikes and ride to a little mom and pop diner they had visited with their mom. The same diner that their mom had taken them to after Isla’s dance performances and, later, her singing competitions. It wasn’t the same as being there with her, but it helped them feel closer to her than they did at home.

Isla and Harper would wait until the same booth they’d always sat in was free. They’d slide onto the red vinyl seats and read through the laminated menu, even though they didn’t have enough money for more than a chocolate shake each.

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