Page 70 of Jayson
A second bubble appears before I can process the first:
Remember the rosebush by thepond?
I do.
The mug slips from my grasp, hits the Persian runner with a dull thud, lukewarm tea soaking into crimson threads. My limbs go jelly-weak.
Only two people ever saw Riley tuck that rose behind her ear. Riley and me—and whoever waited in the dark for her to leave that night.
Spam can’t know that.
A third message pings:
Your father kept… his secrets.
Don’t make me clean up his mess.
My lungs seize. I taste metal. There’s no name, no threat spelled outright, but every syllable drips with knowledge no outsider could possess. Yet the number isn’t one I know - I fumble with the phone, open my screen and hover over the number, then call. It gives me nothing but static. I try again. And again. Without success.
“College prank,” I mutter, but the words collapse in my mouth. The bullies back at Saint Ignatius wouldn’t know about the rosebush, wouldn’t know the secrets my father kept, wouldn’t know the pond. They bullied me mercilessly for my father’s sins—but they never questioned the secrets buried in his history.
My shaking thumb hovers over the call button. Who can I call? Who can I confide in?
The library’s high windows suddenly feel too open, moonlight too bright. Anyone camped on the south lawn could watch me panic, count my breaths, taste my fear.
A final vibration jolts my hand.
You can’t hide in a haunted house forever.
See you soon, Keira.
My chest caves. It’s not the words. It’s the certainty in them.
They don’t ask where I am, because they already know.
I delete the message with a swipe of my thumb like that can erase the terror curling cold and slick in my stomach. But it’s too late. The chill is in my spine now, in my fingers, under my nails.
The mansion is quiet—too quiet. Ancient. Breathing.
Somewhere down the hall, an old pipe sighs. The wind scratches along the windows like it’s trying to get in. Or maybe out.
I pace. Six steps, turn. Six steps, turn.
The message replays in my mind like a whisper I can’t shake:
Some secrets should stay buried.
Some secrets should stay buried.
Some secrets…
I stop breathing.
I head to the kitchen. For water. For something.
It’s not about thirst. It’s about movement. Control.
If I stop, I’ll shatter.
