Chapter 7: The Cracks Widen

SCARLETT

Morning sunlight feels cruel after a night without sleep.

I stood at my bedroom window, arms folded, watching dust drift in the golden air. My heart still races from Damien’s whisper hours ago. We need to talk. Tomorrow. Alone.

Tomorrow is here.

The house lies silent except for the low gurgle of the coffeemaker. No clinking of plates, no hum of my mother’s voice. I pad down the hallway and pause. The smell of strong brew mixes with something sharper wine that never quite left after last night’s fight.

On the kitchen counter a note leans against the sugar jar.

Early meeting. Back late. –M.

Relief flares through me. I almost laughed. Fate is reckless enough to give me exactly what I want.

I poured coffee and let the steam sting my face. My pulse keeps quickening like a warning drum.

A knock at the back door snaps the quiet.

He’s here.

Damien stands on the porch, hair damp, hoodie zipped halfway over a white T-shirt. The morning light cuts across his jaw, and for a heartbeat he looks like someone from a dream I’m not supposed to remember.

“Morning,” he says, voice rough.

I step aside without a word. The space between us hums.

He didn't sit. He paces once, hands shoved into his hoodie pockets. “About last night…” His eyes stay on the floor. “Your mom and I she’s drinking more and more even after the our heated argument. I tried to calm things down, but—” He exhales hard. “It’s getting bad.”

He sounds almost embarrassed, as if confessing a weakness.

I tighten my grip on the coffee mug. “And that’s why you came back this morning?”

“Partly.” His glance flicks to mine and lingers. “I just…needed to see you.”

The words hang like static.

My heartbeat finds a dangerous rhythm. “Then say what you need to say.”

He takes a step closer, then stops. “Scarlett, whatever’s been building between us it can’t happen.”

“But it is happening.” You've said this over and over again. The words slip out before I can catch them.

Silence. Only the slow drip of coffee into the carafe.

He runs a hand over his face. “That’s the problem.”

I set the mug down carefully. “Then why keep showing up?”

He didn't answer. He just looks at me with something raw something that doesn’t match his warning.

A car door slams outside.

We both jump.

I move to the window. My mother’s sedan glints in the driveway, hours earlier than her note promised. My stomach lurches.

Why those this witch always come back during every fucking important moment? I asked my self with anger and hatred overwhelming me.

Damien mutters a curse. “She wasn’t supposed to be back yet.”

“She’ll see your truck,” I whisper.

“I’ll leave through the side.” He starts toward the mudroom, then pauses. “Not a word.”

Before I can respond he’s gone, silent as a shadow.

The front door opens. “Scarlett?” my mother calls, her voice already sharp.

I smooth my hair and step into the hallway, forcing calm. “Morning. You’re early.”

She sets her purse on the table, eyes scanning the room. “ got cancelled.” Her gaze drifts toward the kitchen. “Smells like coffee. You make enough for two?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Want some?”

She watches me for a long second before nodding. “Please.”

While I pour her a cup, she studies the counter as though looking for fingerprints. “You didn’t hear anyone outside? I thought I saw a truck when I pulled in.”

My heart skips. “Probably the neighbors.” I force a fake smile.

She sips the coffee but doesn’t stop watching me. “You look tired.”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“Funny,” she says softly. “Neither could I.”

She didn't even let me answer. Whatever.

The weight behind her words presses into the kitchen walls. I grip the counter until my knuckles pale.

After a few quiet minutes she straightens. “I have errands. We’ll talk tonight.” The way she says it feels like a warning.

When she leaves again, the silence she leaves behind is louder than before.

The rest of the day crawls.

I try reading, cleaning, anything to keep my mind from spinning. But every creak of the house pulls me back to the kitchen, to Damien’s voice I just needed to see you. I couldn't get my self to ignore that seductive masculine voice of his lingering into my head every minute.

By mid-afternoon I’m pacing.

A low rumble of an engine stops me cold. I peer through the curtain. Damien’s truck idles at the curb, not in the driveway. He’s trying to stay hidden.

I slip outside before I can think.

He leans against the truck, hood pulled low. “She’s gone?”

“For now.”

He scans the street, then looked at me. “She knows something’s is wrong.”

I swallow. “Then why are you here?”

His jaw tightens. “Because staying away isn’t working.”

The honesty in his voice sends a shiver through me. I search his face for a sign of regret, but find only exhaustion and something that looks too much like longing.

Before I could speak, his phone buzzes. He glances at the screen and goes still.

A single line glows there, bold and anonymous. We need to talk. It’s about Maria.

Color drains from his face.

“Who is it?” curiously I ask.

“Work,” he says too quickly, locking at the screen.

“You’re lying.”

He didn't deny it.

For a moment neither of us moves. The late-day sun burns the edges of everything his hoodie, the sidewalk, the quiet houses that seem to be holding their breath.

Then the crunch of gravel. My mother’s car turns the corner far sooner than expected.

Damien’s eyes widen. “Not a word,” he whispers, already sliding into the truck.

I stand rooted to the driveway as her car pulls in behind me, engine ticking, her expression unreadable through the windshield.

The air tastes like electricity, like a storm about to break.

My mother steps out of the car with a measured calm that makes my stomach knot.

“Why are you outside?” she asks, shutting the door with deliberate care.

The question is simple, but her eyes search me like they’re looking for cracks.

“Just getting some air,” I manage. My voice sounds steady, though my pulse is hammering.

She glances toward the street. “I thought I saw a truck turning the corner. Someone visiting?”

The words scrape across my nerves. “Delivery van, maybe. I didn’t see who it was.”

She studies me a heartbeat longer, then walks past into the house. “We need to talk,” she says over her shoulder.

The hallway feels smaller when I follow her in. The scent of her perfume sharp and citrusy mixes with the lingering smell of coffee and wine.

She sets her bag on the table. “You’ve been…different,” she says finally. “Quieter. Secretive. And Damien’s been acting strange too.”

My throat goes dry. “Everyone’s stressed.”

“That’s not all it is.” Her gaze sharpens. “Scarlett, is there something I should know?”

The urge to confess flickers and dies. “No. Of course not.”

Silence stretches. A clock ticks like a metronome of guilt.

“Fine,” she says at last, though her voice is brittle. “But I can feel something in this house. And I will find out what it is.”

She disappears into her room, leaving the threat hanging in the air.

Night creeps in slowly. I sat on the edge of my bed, phone in hand, waiting. No message from Damien. Only the memory of that anonymous text on his screen. We need to talk. It’s about Maria.

Who would send that?

And what could they know?

I think of possibilities someone from his work, an old friend, a hidden part of his past. Each scenario twists tighter until my chest aches.

A faint vibration startles me. A new text flashes across my phone. Stay away from him if you want the truth to stay buried.

No name. No number.

I stared at the screen, heart pounding so loud I’m sure my mother can hear it through the walls.

The house feels suddenly alive floorboards groaning, pipes whispering. I step to the window. Across the street, a figure stands half-hidden by the shadows of a maple tree. Too far to see a face, but the shape is unmistakably human.

A chill slides down my spine.

I blinked, and the figure was gone.

Hours later I’m still awake when a quiet tap comes at my bedroom door.

“Scarlett?” My mother’s voice, low and uncertain.

“Yes?”

The door opens a fraction. Moonlight catches the worry lines around her eyes. “I just…wanted to say good night. And that I love you.”

It’s the kind of tenderness I can’t remember hearing from her in months. Guilt presses heavy in my chest.

“I love you too,” I whispered.

She hesitates, then closes the door.

I stay standing in the dark, the message on my phone glowing like a wound. Stay away from him if you want the truth to stay buried.

Who is warning me and what truth are they ready to drag into the light?