Chapter 16 The Subplot
the subplot [trope]
the secondary characters who are up to their own shenanigans and have their own plot points; often more entertaining than the main storyline, the subplot is like the side dish you didn’t order but end up liking more than the entrée
“Oh my fucking God,” I grouch as my eyes open. The light streaming in from the window is worrisome, to say the least—it’s midmorning sun, which means I must be late for work. However, seeing as someone’s playing Whac-A-Mole with my brain, I can’t bring myself to care. “What have I done?”
I open one eye, then the other, memories of last night coming back in flashes.
Theo talking about Rafael, then Rafael and me walking home.
How he forced me to drink what felt like seven liters of water before letting me fall asleep and then was perfectly happy to have my body thrown over his.
Finally, I realize it’s Sunday. I’m off work.
Wait, where is Sherlock?
I straighten, immediately relieved when I see him curled at my feet. Rafael must have fed him again. I pick up my phone and find a text.
Rafael
Good morning, Freckles. I’m not sure how much you remember, so I figured I’d give you a summary of last night.
Yes, we cuddled—you insisted, I swear—and that’s all that happened.
If you feel a sting in your gorgeous behind, that’s because you fell into a bush.
No thorns, I checked. As for the sting in your pride, you have the Macarena to blame.
It was adorable. Sherlock has been fed, dessert included.
Find breakfast in the kitchen and aspirin on the bedside table.
I wish I could have stayed, but I had to go back to my drug empire. Call me later?
I blink a few times, rereading Rafael’s text with growing giddiness. His message is the perfect antidote for the pounding in my head and the soreness from what I vaguely remember as a very embarrassing tumble.
“Adorable, huh?” I murmur, running my fingers through my messy hair as Sherlock stretches luxuriously at my feet. “At least one of us has their life together.”
I climb out of bed, popping the aspirin into my mouth and downing it with the glass of water beside it. I grab my phone again to respond, but before I can, a notification catches my eye: “Inbox (217 unread messages).”
I frown, tapping the icon. My inbox rarely fills up this fast; I get maybe three or four emails a week from listeners of the podcast. My stomach twists as I see the subject lines filling the screen like a tidal wave.
Did you see the Reddit post???
Murderers like the podcast?!
You HAVE to address this in the next episode!
Is it true? Is there a connection to the books you talked about?
Scarlett, please respond!!
“What the hell…” I trail off, scrolling through the increasingly frantic messages. Some are from listeners asking if I’ve seen the post, others are full of speculation about recent murders, and some are disturbingly accusatory:
This is your fault. You inspired a psycho.
What are you hiding?!
Are you working with the killer?
My fingers tremble as I open the podcast app, my heart still racing. I tap on the podcast, expecting to see the usual stats—modest numbers, enough to keep it alive, but nothing earth-shattering.
But when the analytics load, my jaw drops.
The latest episode: 432,897 listens.
The one before that: 389,452 listens.
Even episodes from months ago—ones that barely broke ten thousand before—are suddenly soaring. I swipe through the stats, my jaw unhinging farther with every passing second. Comments are flooding in, too, faster than I can scroll.
“Holy crap.” I stare at the numbers like they might vanish if I blink too hard. For a fleeting moment, my chest swells with pride. The podcast has blown up. After years of late nights, endless editing, and pouring my heart into this project, it’s finally happening. People are listening. They care.
But the rush of euphoria is short-lived.
The spike isn’t because I’m good at what I do. It’s because someone out there—somewhere—is using my words, my passion, as inspiration for unspeakable acts.
My stomach churns as the thrill curdles into guilt, thick and heavy. I swipe to the comments, desperate for something, anything, that might make this feel less awful.
Scarlett, your podcast is incredible. Do you think the killer listens to it?
You’re so insightful. Do you have a theory about the murderer?
I found your podcast after hearing about the murders. Obsessed already!
Obsessed.
The numbers don’t feel like success.
They feel like a noose tightening around my neck.
I walk up the long, winding path to the front door, every step feeling like I’m inching closer to the end of a plank, teetering on the brink of falling into dark, unsafe waters.
I haven’t seen Grandma and Grandpa since Ethan’s birthday dinner last year, when we kept things light and surface level. There won’t be any of that today.
I am going to demand to know what’s happening with Ethan—what’s this Virginia thing he’s brought up?—and my grandmother doesn’t deal well with demands.
At least a bucket of coffee and several gallons of water later, I’m fully recovered from my hangover.
With an invigorating breath, I raise my hand to knock on the heavy wooden doors, ready to throw myself to the sharks. A moment later, my grandparents’ maid opens the door.
“Scarlett? Mr. and Mrs. Moore didn’t say they were expecting company.”
“They’re not. I, uh, I was wondering if I could talk to them.”
She blinks, then opens the door wider to let me in. My grandparents aren’t exactly the kind of people you pop in on unannounced, so she must be unsure about the protocol.
“I’ll let Mrs. Moore know you’re here,” she says as she accompanies me to the sitting room.
The furniture is upholstered in cream-colored fabric that seems more suited to a museum than to actual human use.
Ornate gold-framed mirrors hang on the walls, reflecting an endless cycle of mahogany and marble, like some never-ending luxury loop.
I sink into a wingback chair that’s as stiff as my nerves, perching uncomfortably on the edge.
My gaze drifts to the clock in the corner, and I am half tempted to rearrange a pillow just to see what happens, but then the distant sound of heels clicking against marble reminds me where I am—and who I’m waiting for.
My grandmother enters the room in a tailored lavender suit that complements her silver hair, pinned back in a neat chignon. “Scarlett, dear.” When I stand, she leans in for a perfunctory kiss on the cheek. “We didn’t expect you.”
“Yes, I know. Sorry, Grandma.”
“Oh, nonsense.” She sits primly on the couch, smoothing her already-perfect skirt. “You’re always welcome.”
Oh, she’s proper mad.
“Thank you.” I rub my hands together, the heat from my palms doing little to warm the icy knot of nerves in my stomach. “Is Grandpa going to join us?”
“He’s at work, unfortunately.” Her eyes narrow, the slightest twitch betraying her annoyance. “If you’d let us know, I could have had you over when he was available.”
“That’s okay,” I say quickly, ignoring the veiled jab. “I just wanted to talk about Ethan.”
She crosses her legs, her pearls catching the light. “Well, go ahead.”
“I’m not sure if he told you, but he’s come over to my place a couple of times.” I adjust my position on the stiff couch. Her expression doesn’t change—not a flicker—so I push forward. “And I couldn’t help but notice that he’s… struggling.”
“Struggling,” she echoes.
“Yes, uh, to make friends.” I hesitate. “And you must have noticed his face. The bruises?”
She doesn’t even blink. My pulse quickens, the tension in my chest tightening like a vise, until she finally says, “He’s been spending time with this…
friend. Jace something,” her voice dripping with disapproval.
“And to be honest with you, it’s been nothing but trouble since then.
He gets into fights, and the other day, I caught him smoking.
Smoking!” She shakes her head, her lips twisting into a disdainful pout.
Relief washes over me that at least on this, we seem to agree. “Did you talk about it?”
“There’s no talking to your brother,” she snaps, waving a manicured hand dismissively. “It’s all ‘Mind your business’ and ‘I’m busy now.’ ” She sighs dramatically. “I went to see his teachers, then Dr. Waven, and he said—”
“Dr. Waven?”
“His therapist.”
I rub my forehead, trying to process what she said. “Uh, Grandma… that’s a huge invasion of his privacy. You can’t do that.”
“I wouldn’t have had to if he talked to me.”
“So, what message are you sending him? That he shouldn’t trust his teachers? His therapist? That he has no right to privacy?”
Her lips press into a tight line, her irritation radiating off her in waves. “Well, thank God I did it, because Dr. Waven said—”
“I don’t want to know,” I say firmly, raising a hand to cut her off. “It’s none of my business.”
She exhales sharply, her nostrils flaring. “Of course.” Standing abruptly, she gestures toward the hallway with a flick of her hand. “Well, it was lovely seeing you. I’ll say hello to your grandfather for you.”
I stay seated, my hands clasped tightly in my lap, digging my nails into my palms. After a beat, she sinks back into her seat.
“Is there something else?” she asks.
“He mentioned Virginia.”
She pauses—long enough for me to know she didn’t plan to share that particular piece of information with me. “Uh-huh. What about it?”
“You tell me. Are you shipping him off to another state?”
“Oh, don’t be dramatic, Scarlett.” The maid enters the room with a tray. Once she sets it on the coffee table, my grandma points at the teapot. “Tea?”
“Why do you want to send him to Virginia?”
She fills the first cup. “It’s just a quick flight away.”
A flight I can’t afford. “Why?”
“Your grandfather and I have enrolled him in a boarding school that only a handful of lucky young men have access to. He’ll get a sublime education and the experience of a lifetime.”
That’s it? She’s sending him to some fancy school? He still has two years of high school left—is that how long he’ll be gone? And she planned to keep it a secret from me?
“Then maybe you should let someone else seize this opportunity,” I say, my frustration boiling over. “Someone who actually wants it, because Ethan doesn’t.”
“The choice is ours to make, and it’s been made.” She sets a tea bag into the first cup, then looks up. “I didn’t hear an answer the first time. Would you like some tea?”
I’d like to strangle her, actually, but I force myself to stay calm. Hostility won’t get me anywhere. Rationality might. “Grandma, I think… Ethan feels unwanted. He’s angry about Mom and Dad’s deaths, and he feels like I gave him up. If you send him away at the first sign of trouble—”
“Are you saying I’m abandoning my grandchild?”
“I’m saying that’s how he sees it. He’s filled with anger, and this won’t help. I promise it won’t.”
Her gaze sharpens. “Ethan isn’t fitting in, Scarlett. The way your mother raised him—” I watch her grimace. “And his actions reflect on us, too.”
“So you’re sending him away because you’re… embarrassed.”
“I’m sending him to a prestigious school where he’ll have a new opportunity to fit in with kids his age. Without the influence of that… delinquent.”
Right. So it’s either my mom’s fault or Jace’s. “Someone’s bullying him, and your solution is to send him away? To let bad people get away with unacceptable behavior?”
She brings the mug to her lips and takes a slow sip. “Can I know where all this sudden interest came from? You haven’t been a part of Ethan’s life for years, and now you decide you should have a say in his upbringing?”
Angry tears well up in my eyes, blurring the room’s perfect edges. I understand Ethan saying this, but her? She’s the reason I wasn’t in his life. “You can’t be serious.”
“I am.”
Guilt strangles me, closing my throat up. My eyes burn, but I refuse to let the tears fall, even with the same nagging voice that feels like a splinter lodged inside my brain.
I should have tried harder. Texted one more time. Called more. I gave up. This is all my fault.
She stands, brushing imaginary lint off her skirt. “Scarlett, I’m expected somewhere. So unless there’s anything else…”
I rise slowly, then shake my head. I’m more mad at myself than at her, because I actually thought I could convince her to change her mind. That there was something I could say to make her listen.
She turns and strides toward the entryway, her heels clicking loudly on the polished floor. I follow in silence, my throat tight.
She opens the door, her voice sickeningly sweet. “We’ll plan something soon, all right?”
I take a step outside, then pause, glancing back. My gaze moves upward, catching a shadow on the staircase. Ethan is flat against the wall, his eyes red-rimmed. He looks like he’s about to cry, or maybe like he just stopped.
The disappointment I feel ignites into a fiery inferno of anger as I glare at my grandmother. “This doesn’t end here,” I say, and then I shift my gaze to Ethan. “And that’s a promise.”