Chapter 7
AMBER
Istir awake around two in the afternoon with my throat burning.
I fumble for the glass on my nightstand, drain it, then stumble to the sink for another. The water tastes like metal and relief. I drink until the ache eases, then stand there with both hands braced on the counter, letting the memories catch up to me.
Last night stacks itself in my head, one moment on top of the other. The alley. Giovanni’s voice. The way my pulse wouldn’t slow down even after I got home.
I feel stupid for how much space it’s taking up.
Ashamed, too. Not of what happened exactly, but of how my body reacted. Of how part of me leaned into the danger instead of away from it. That part scares me more than Giovanni ever could.
I touch the bracelet on my wrist. Coral beads. Amber beads. Solid. Real.
Men like him are dangerous, I remind myself. Men with power don’t come with warning labels. They come with consequences.
I leave the kitchen and pad back into my bedroom, sunlight leaking in around the edges of the blinds. My phone is face-down on the bed where I dropped it sometime before dawn. I flip it over and check the screen.
Nothing.
No missed calls. No texts from Rose.
My chest tightens.
I tell myself Rose might be asleep. Or sick. Or ignoring her phone on purpose because that’s what she does when she doesn’t want to think about things.
The lie doesn’t stick.
I shower, scrubbing myself harder than necessary, as if I can rinse off the night. Giovanni’s voice still echoes in my head, calm and dangerous and too certain. When I step out, my skin is pink and warm, my hair dripping down my back.
I dress slowly. Jeans. A clean T-shirt. Old, comfortable clothes that let me feel like myself.
The apartment feels too quiet. It always does during the day. It’s the place I used to share with my family, and it feels too big now. Lonely. The silence presses in on me, thick and heavy, broken only by the hum of the fridge and the distant noise of the city outside.
I should sell it. Or rent it out. That would be the smart thing to do.
I can’t.
Every room is full of memories I don’t know how to box up. Of laughter that still echoes if I let myself listen too closely.
Coral’s room is at the end of the hall.
I don’t mean to walk that way, but my feet take me there anyway. I stop in front of the closed door, my hand hovering just inches from the handle.
If I open it, her bed will still be made. Her books will still be strewn across the desk, exactly where she left them. Nothing inside that room has moved on, even if the rest of us were forced to.
I can’t bear it.
I know I’ll break down if I open that door, and I don’t have it in me to put myself back together again today. So I don’t.
I let my hand fall to my side and take a step back, breathing through the tightness in my chest.
The reminder is enough. More than enough.
Giovanni is dangerous. The same way the man in the red dress shirt was dangerous.
I won’t give my parents one more heartbreak. Not after all we’ve been through.
I sit on the edge of the couch and stare at the opposite wall until my thoughts slow enough to line up. But I can’t push Rose out of my mind any more than Coral’s memory.
If Giovanni knows something, he didn’t say it last night. That much is clear. Whether that’s because he can’t or because he won’t is still an open question.
And then there’s the deal.
Drinks. Tonight. After closing.
I don’t like it. I don’t trust it. But I can’t pretend it didn’t feel like the only solid thing offered to me in hours.
I check the time again. Still early. Too early to go to work. Too early to call hospitals without sounding unhinged.
I text Izzy instead.
I’m up. Any news?
Three dots appear almost immediately.
Nothing yet, she writes. Donald’s already panicking about tonight.
I snort softly.
Of course he is.
I hesitate, then type: Still no word from Rose.
The dots stop. Start again.
I know, Izzy replies. I’ll let you know if I hear anything. Promise.
I set the phone down and lean back, staring at the ceiling.
Then, against all hope—
It buzzes.
ROSE: I’m fine. I’m sick. Flu or something.
Relief hits first. Fast and dizzying. My shoulders sag as if I’ve been holding them up for days instead of hours.
Then suspicion creeps in right behind it.
I call her.
It rings. And rings.
No answer.
A second later, another text comes through.
ROSE: Don’t call. I sound like a zombie. Feel awful.
I stare at the screen.
The wording sounds like her. Casual. Light. Downplaying everything the way she always does. Exactly the kind of thing Rose would say to make me back off.
And that’s what scares me.
I type back slowly.
When do you think you’ll be back?
The reply takes longer this time.
ROSE: I don’t know. Depends how long this lasts.
My stomach tightens.
Rose hates uncertainty. She plans everything. Even her bad days come with timelines. I don’t know is not a part of her vocabulary. My friendship with her has long made me realize that are not words she’d say unless she has no choice.
I stare at the messages, reading them again and again, searching for something out of place. A typo. A wrong rhythm. Anything that proves this isn’t really her.
I can’t rule it out.
If someone else were holding her phone, pretending to be her, the smartest thing I could do right now would be to act normal. Not tip my hand. Not let them know I’m suspicious.
So I don’t push.
Get better soon xoxo, I type, my fingers steady even though my chest isn’t.
The reply comes almost immediately.
ROSE:
I lock my phone and slip it into my pocket.
I don’t know what tonight is going to bring. I don’t know if Giovanni will actually show up at that pub, or if this was all just another way to keep me quiet.
But I do know one thing.
I’m done waiting.
If Rose needs me, I’m going to be there.
I close my eyes, press my fingers once more into the bracelet on my wrist, and count my breaths until the knot in my chest loosens.
Dusk will come soon enough.