Chapter 4 #2
Steam rises and I strip off the borrowed flannel and sweatpants, the fabric heavy with everything I’ve been carrying. The cold. The fear. The guilt. The lie.
When I step into the shower, the warmth hits me like a soft exhale.
It’s not just about getting clean. It’s about rinsing away the past twelve hours and grounding myself again after almost drowning in more ways than one.
The water glides over my skin, soothing clenched muscles.
I close my eyes and tilt my head back, letting it pour through my tangled hair, over my shoulders, down my spine.
For a few precious minutes, I’m not a reporter. Not a liar. Not lost. I’m just Charlotte. A woman who got stuck in a snowstorm and was pulled out of rising floodwaters by the man she came here to investigate.
No big deal.
I dry off slowly, wrapping myself in the soft towel, careful not to rush the moment.
I find a spare toothbrush under the sink—still in the wrapper, thank God—and use it with minty toothpaste I fish out of a drawer.
I was prepared to smear toothpaste on my finger if needed.
Anything to get the slick film off my teeth.
By the time I pull the sweatpants and flannel back on, I feel a little more like myself. Or maybe just a version of myself I’m not entirely ashamed of.
I take one last look in the mirror, breathing in deeply.
Then I open the bathroom door and go to the bed, pulling up the bedding. With one last look I exhale and step into the hallway. Time to face whatever’s waiting in the kitchen .
I ease into the hallway, footsteps light on the wood floor. The scent of bacon drifts my way. I want to go faster, but then I hear it.
Voices.
I slow near the staircase, following the quiet sounds down the hall toward what I assume is the kitchen. I don’t mean to eavesdrop. I shouldn’t. But something in Sam’s tone stops me cold.
“You said she said she’s on vacation.” His voice is low, unreadable.
Phern responds with a snort. “In the middle of nowhere. During a spring storm. Wearing brand new boots with flowers on them?”
A pause. The silence says everything they’re not.
“She’s lying, Sam.”
I freeze.
“I looked her up,” Phern continues. “Entertainment reporter, out of LA. Name’s Charlotte Wilson. She’s got a byline on that piece about you last year. The one about Gwen. The?—”
“I remember.” Sam’s voice is flat. Quiet. Dangerous in its stillness.
“You don’t think it’s a coincidence she just shows up out here, do you?”
Another pause.
And then Sam says softly, “I don’t know what I think yet.”
Something stings behind my eyes. I press myself tighter against the wall, every breath sharp in my throat.
Phern sighs. “Look, I know you’re trying to be kind. I do. But maybe kindness isn’t what she needs right now. Maybe the truth is. ”
The scrape of a chair. Footsteps heading toward the doorway.
I move fast, retreating down the hall like a ghost and rounding the corner into the entryway just in time to make it look like I’m arriving fresh, clueless, harmless.
I paste on a smile that feels too tight, too hollow.
Time to play nice.
“Good morning,” I say, trying to sound casual. Not like someone who just overheard her name dropped like a warning.
Sam looks up from his plate, and when he sees me, he smiles. Not the guarded kind, either. This one’s soft, like he’s genuinely glad I’m still standing.
“Morning.”
The sound of it curls somewhere low in my chest, damn him.
Phern, already seated at his left, offers a grunt. It’s not quite hostile, but definitely not friendly either.
I slide into the seat on his right and suddenly the big table between us feels more like a battlefield. The smell of eggs and toast drifts up, but I can’t taste anything through the knot in my throat.
The silence is heavy, thick with everything unsaid.
Sam pushes a mug toward me. “Coffee?”
“God, yes.” I grab it with both hands like it’s the only solid thing in the room.
He chuckles under his breath, and that brief sound cuts through the tension like a sliver of light. But it doesn’t last.
Phern busies herself with her food, but I can feel her watching me from the corner of her eye. Judging. Calculating. Waiting for me to slip.
And honestly? She’s not wrong to. Because I am lying. And I’m sitting right between the two people I lied to. No pressure.
The scrape of Phern’s fork against her plate is the only sound for a few long seconds. She chews slowly, deliberately, before setting it down with a soft clink that somehow echoes louder than it should.
“So, Charlotte,” she says, cutting right through the silence.
I glance up, mug halfway to my lips.
She smiles, but it’s the kind that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “You said you’re on vacation?”
I nod slowly, forcing a neutral tone. “Yeah. Thought I’d get out of LA for a bit. Recharge.”
“In a town with one gas station, no airport, and zero cell reception,” she muses, reaching for her own mug. “You must really hate people.”
I let out a dry laugh that doesn’t quite land. “Crowds aren’t really my thing.”
“Hm.” She sips her coffee, watching me over the rim like a hawk. “And you just happened to end up right outside our driveway. In a storm. After previously writing heinous pieces about my brother.”
The air stills. Even the fire crackling in the hearth sounds quieter.
Sam doesn’t say anything. He just looks at me, but I feel every ounce of his attention.
My mouth goes dry.
“I swear I’m not here to cause trouble. And I had no idea it was going to storm like that. If I had, do you really think I’d driven into flood waters in a Prius wearing leggings and a t-shirt?”
“You’re here for a story. Just admit it.”
I shake my head. “That’s not why I’m here. ”
“God. You people make me sick. You ran him out of Nashville and now you’re chasing him down here? Should we prepare for more? Peeping Tom’s with cameras who look through our windows?”
Sam exhales through his nose. It’s subtle, not quite a sigh, but close. And he says, “Phern.”
“Whatever.” Phern pushes back from the table and stands. “Enjoy your eggs.”
Then she walks out, leaving her plate half-full and tension in her place.
I stare at the table, my appetite gone.
Next to me, Sam’s still watching. Not accusatory. Not even angry. Just watching. Like he’s trying to figure out if I’m worth believing.
I clear my throat, but it comes out small and raw. “I didn’t write those pieces. I helped fact-check one. That’s all. I usually only cover events in LA.”
He doesn’t flinch. Just nods once. “Doesn’t really change how it felt.”
“No,” I say quietly. “I don’t suppose it would.”
The weight of the silence stretches again, long and brittle. I can feel the heat creeping up my neck.
“I didn’t come here to follow you. Not like that,” I add. “I wasn’t sent. I wasn’t assigned. I was just…” I trail off, searching for something that won’t sound pathetic or invasive or like I’m chasing a ghost I have no business touching.
“You were just curious,” Sam finishes for me.
I meet his eyes. “Yeah. I guess I was.”
He leans back slightly in his chair, gaze flicking to the window for a beat before coming back to me. “You know, when I pulled you out of that car you didn’t look like someone chasing a headline. You looked like someone in way over her head. ”
I let out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “That’s accurate.”
Another pause. This one less sharp.
Then, softly, he says, “You want the truth?”
I nod.
“Half the time, I don’t even know why I’m here,” he says. “So if you came looking for answers.” His voice lowers, something sad curling under it. “Don’t expect too much.”
I don’t respond. Not yet.
Because beneath his silence, Phern’s anger, the storm, the lie still hanging between us… I’m starting to see it.
This isn’t just a story.
This is a fracture. A retreat. A man unraveling quietly in his childhood home.
I’m already in deeper than I ever meant to be. Which means I should walk away before things go any further. But sometimes what we should do and what we end up doing are two different things.
Sam glances down at his plate, then back up at me. “You know one of the last times I ate breakfast at this table?” he asks, voice low.
I shake my head.
“My dad was still alive. I was nineteen. Just signed my first record deal. Thought I was invincible.” He gives a small, humorless smile. “He said, ‘Don’t let that label take your soul.’ And I laughed. Thought he was being dramatic.”
His thumb brushes absently against his coffee mug.
“I didn’t get it until years later. Not until I’d already given it up. Piece by piece.”
The words settle between us like dust. No anger in them. Just truth.
He meets my eyes again, steady and open in a way that twists something in my chest.
“I guess what I’m saying is I get it. How easy it is to chase something so hard, you don’t realize what it’s costing you until it’s gone.”
I don’t know what to say. Not really. Not when everything in me is tilting forward, listening too hard. Feeling too much.
“Thanks,” I whisper, because it’s all I’ve got.
He nods once, then stands and starts clearing the plates without another word.
But that crack he just opened? It’s still there. And now I’m not sure if I want to fix it or fall through it.