Page 69 of Let Me In

I move through the house like muscle memory, kettle refilled in case she wants more tea for the road, dog food scooped out with that old tin scoop she pretended not to admire yesterday. The fire’s low, so I stoke it. Add another log.

She reappears a few minutes later.

Her hair is brushed. Her boots laced. Luca is at her side, leash in his mouth like he knows it’s time. Cleo waits by the door, tail wagging slow.

Emmy’s bag is slung over one shoulder.

It’s too heavy, I can tell, but she doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t complain.

And that, more than anything, tells me she’s getting ready to face something hard.

I take the bag from her without asking.

She lets me.

She clips the dogs. Shrugs into her coat. And then—almost like it doesn’t matter—she pulls her phone from the front pocket of her bag and lights up the screen.

The screen lights up in her hand.

I don’t mean to look.

But I do.

Just a glance, and I see it.

The flood of notifications. Missed calls. Dozens of unread messages.

Some are from her parents.

Some are from her sister.

And then—at the bottom—

Whore.

He’ll never respect you.

My spine goes rigid.

Because I know those words.

Not personally.

But I know the kind of venom it takes to send them.

Especially from blood. Especially when you’re supposed to love someone enough to protect them from everything that hurts—and instead, you become the thing that hurts the most.

My grip tightens on her bag. Breath punches low in my gut.

Not because I’m surprised.

But because I see it now. So clearly it makes my vision blur.

This isn’t a one-time cruelty. This isn’t someone lashing out in a moment of heat.

This is a pattern. A rot in the foundation.

And the worst part is, I don’t think she even expected better.

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