Chapter 16
Emily's POV
Tuesday morning I left early again, but this time when I reached the subway entrance, Ethan's truck was already there. He was leaning against the driver's side door, hands in his jacket pockets, watching the building entrance like he'd been waiting a while.
I stopped on the sidewalk. He straightened when he saw me, something uncertain flickering across his face.
"You didn't have to do this," I said.
"I know." He opened the passenger door. "But I wanted to."
I stood there for a moment longer, weighing the risk against the pull in my chest that wanted to say yes, wanted to stop fighting every offer of help like it came with strings attached. Then I crossed the street and climbed in.
The drive to school was quieter than yesterday, but it wasn't uncomfortable. Ethan didn't push for conversation, didn't fill the silence with questions I didn't want to answer. He just drove, occasionally glancing over like he was checking to make sure I was still there.
When we pulled into the school parking lot, I reached for the door handle but didn't open it right away. "Ethan?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For this. For..." I gestured vaguely, encompassing everything I couldn't find words for. "All of it."
He smiled—not the easy, confident grin I'd seen him use with his teammates, but something smaller and more genuine. "Anytime, Emily. I mean it."
I believed him. That was the terrifying part.
---
The next few days fell into a pattern. Ethan picked me up every morning, dropped me off after school, and didn't ask for explanations or gratitude beyond what I volunteered. We talked sometimes—about classes, about nothing important—but mostly we just existed in the same space without pressure, without expectation.
It should have made me relax. Instead, it made me more aware of the chasm between what he thought he knew about me and what I actually was.
Thursday afternoon, as we pulled up outside my building, Ethan turned off the engine but didn't immediately unlock the doors. I looked at him, questioning.
"Can I ask you something?" he said.
My shoulders tensed automatically. "Depends on what it is."
"It's not about your dad or anything heavy. I promise." He shifted in his seat, facing me more directly. "There's a party Friday night. Just some people from school. Nothing big. Would you want to go?"
I blinked. "A party?"
"I know it's probably not your thing, but..." He trailed off, scratching the back of his neck in a gesture that would have looked awkward on anyone else. "I thought maybe it'd be good. To do something normal for a change."
Normal. The word felt foreign, like something from a language I used to speak but had forgotten. I tried to imagine it—walking into a room full of classmates, making small talk, pretending I was just another teenager worried about grades and college applications instead of someone who'd engineered a murder five days ago.
"I don't know," I said slowly.
"You don't have to decide now. Just think about it?" His expression was hopeful but not pushy, leaving the door open without forcing me through it.
I nodded. "Okay. I'll think about it."
"Cool." He unlocked the doors, and I grabbed my bag. "See you tomorrow?"
"Yeah. Tomorrow."
I climbed out and headed for the building entrance, but before I reached the door, I turned back. Ethan was still there, watching to make sure I got inside safely. When he saw me looking, he raised a hand in a small wave.
I waved back and pushed through the door.
Inside, I leaned against the wall and let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. A party. Something normal. The idea was both appealing and terrifying in equal measure—the chance to be someone other than the girl whose father was on trial for murder, balanced against the risk of letting my guard down in front of people who didn't know the truth about what I'd done.
My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number: This is Detective Rodriguez. Just following up—is there a good time this week for me to stop by and check on you and your mother?
The timing felt like the universe's way of reminding me exactly who I was and what I'd set in motion. I typed back: We're fine. You don't need to check on us. Then, after a pause: But thank you.
Her response came quickly: I'm glad to hear it. If you need anything, you have my number.
I deleted the text thread and shoved my phone in my pocket. Then I climbed the stairs to our apartment, each step feeling heavier than the last, carrying the weight of decisions I couldn't undo and futures I wasn't sure I deserved.
Inside, Mom was at the stove, stirring something that smelled like pasta sauce. She looked up when I came in, her expression brightening. "You're home. How was school?"
"Fine." I dropped my bag by the door. "Same as usual."
She studied me for a moment, then turned back to the stove. "That boy dropped you off again?"
"Yeah. Ethan."
"He seems persistent." There was no judgment in her voice, just observation.
I walked to the counter, leaning against it so I could see her face. "Is that a problem?"
"No." She shook her head. "I just want to make sure you're being careful."
"Careful how?"
Mom set down the spoon, turning to face me fully. "Emily, I know you've had to grow up fast. Too fast. But you're still young, and boys like him... they might not understand what you've been through. What we've been through."
"He knows about Dad," I said. "About the arrest. Everyone does."
"That's not what I mean." She reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear in a gesture so familiar it made my throat tighten. "I mean the rest of it. The parts that don't make the news. The things we don't talk about."
I understood what she was really saying: Be careful how much you let him see. Protect yourself. Don't let anyone close enough to hurt you again.
"I am being careful," I told her. "I promise."
She nodded, satisfied or maybe just resigned, and turned back to the stove. "Dinner in ten minutes."
I grabbed my bag and retreated to my room, closing the door behind me and leaning against it. Mom's warning echoed in my head, mixing with Ethan's invitation, with Rodriguez's text, with the memory of my father's eyes as they led him away.
Be careful.
I'd been careful my whole life. I'd learned to read moods and predict violence, to make myself small and quiet and invisible. And when careful wasn't enough anymore, I'd crossed lines I couldn't uncross, made choices that separated me forever from the person I might have been.
So what did it mean to be careful now? To keep Ethan at arm's length, to never let anyone see the darkness I carried? Or to take the risk, to step into the light he was offering and hope it didn't reveal too much?
I pulled out my phone and opened his contact. Stared at the screen for a long moment.
Then I typed: About Friday. I'll go. If the offer's still open.
The response was almost immediate: Of course it is. I'll pick you up at 8?
Okay.
I set my phone down and sat on the edge of my bed, hands clasped between my knees, and wondered if I'd just made another mistake I couldn't take back.