Page 4 of The Home Grown
My fingers brush the document, and a pang of nausea washes over me. I count to three, gearing myself up, trying to push away the knot of dread sitting heavy in my stomach.
Then I unfold it. Returning my attention to the text again—properly reading it this time.
Except I can’t.
Because it’s in Danish.
Danish.
It’s written in Danish.
The whole thing is in Danish … well, everything bar?—
I piece it together, my eyes roaming over the words as they dance across the paper—unreadable and cryptic. Maybe if I?—
But there’s a knock on the bathroom door, jump-starting me and I scramble to shove it away. To hide the evidence.
“El?” Kathryn says through the door. “Greg’s back with the takeaway.”
I glance back down at the paper, nestled between two tourist leaflets, then back to the door.
“Uh, I’m not hungry,” I say.
There’s a pause before Kathryn speaks again.
“Are you sure?” she says.
“Yes,” I squeak. “My stomach—I feel a bit … queasy. It’s probably the wine from last night.”
“You didn’t drink that much,” she says.
I force a laugh. “Yeah, but … you know me. I can’t handle my wine.”
There’s a silence before Kathryn replies. “Okay, if you say so.”
Her steps retreat on the landing, and I sink down onto the edge of the bath, clutching the document wallet with a shaky hand.
BETTSY
I knowthere’s something going on as soon as I pick my phone up.
Messages. Missed calls. Notifications.
At first, I figure it’s about my best mate screwing around with my sister—big news, sure. But not this big. Notthiskind of mess.
“Rochelle,” I say, clenching my jaw. “Fucking?—”
She’s typically all bark and no bite. Except, while I skim over a forum post several people have sent me, I’m lost for words. I can’t believe what I’m reading. I actually can’t. To double-check, I close the browser and click on the link that was forwarded to me again, antsy as I wait for the page to load.
Yep. There it is. Plain as day.
This has got to be a wind-up, right?
I pace the floor of the dressing room, my face getting hotter as I read it again.
This is far worse than I could have imagined.
The door swings open, and there’s a flurry of movement from the tunnel as the rest of the guys filter in—post game sweat dripping from their brows. Danny, one of the second line wingers, slips through, but instead of heading for his cubby, he changes direction and stops in front of me.
