Look at him. Our boy is polishing his armor for a parade, not a battle. He thinks tonight is the night. The night the 'just friends' asterisk finally gets erased. He's choosing a shirt like it's a legal document—a crisp, dark blue button-down that brings out his eyes, he hopes. If only he knew he should be choosing a weapon instead.
My bedroom was filled with the nervous energy of a thousand unspoken hopes. I was actually humming, a tuneless, cheerful sound that felt foreign coming from my own mouth. The fight with Emma, the awkwardness, Marcus Thorne—it had all been washed away by her words at Lookout Point. You're my person. That single phrase had re-written our future. Tonight wasn't just Miller's graduation party anymore. It was a coronation.
On my desk, next to my car keys, sat a small, perfectly wrapped box. Inside was a heavy, brass compass. I'd spent two weeks' pay from my summer job on it and had it specially engraved on the back with the geographic coordinates for Lookout Point. A symbol. No matter where we went, we'd always know the way back to our center. Back to us. It was cheesy, I knew, but it felt right. It felt true.
Buoyed by a foolish, cinematic optimism, I pulled out my phone. My fingers flew across the screen.
"Hey! Ready for tonight? Can't wait. I'll swing by around 8. I have something for you. :)"
I hit send and tossed the phone onto my bed, the happy little swoosh sound sealing the promise. I was sure her reply would come in seconds.
An hour later, the silence started. I checked my phone. The message was there, floating under a small, damning label: Read 5:47 PM. No reply. Just the cold, digital confirmation that she'd seen my words and offered nothing in return. I rationalized it instantly. Of course. She was getting ready. Doing her hair, her makeup—that stuff took forever. She was probably just too busy to type back. The excuse felt thin, but I clung to it.
Another hour crawled by. The sun bled out of the sky, leaving streaks of orange and purple in its wake. 7:00 PM. The hopeful hum in my chest had been replaced by a low, anxious thrum. I picked up the phone and called her. It rang once. Twice. My heart pounded in time with each ring. Three times. Four. Then, the last sound I wanted to hear.
"Hey, it's Emma! Leave a message and I'll call you back. Beep!"
Her voice, so cheerful and carefree, was a punch to the gut. I hung up before the beep, the silence in my room suddenly feeling heavy and suffocating. My fingers were shaking slightly as I typed out another message, all pretense of casualness gone.
"Hey, is everything okay? Call me."
I paced my room for ten minutes, then grabbed my keys. I had to see. I felt like a stalker, my own thoughts accusing me of being paranoid and crazy, but the bad feeling was a physical thing now, a knot of ice in my stomach. I drove the few blocks to her street and killed my headlights as I rounded the corner, coasting to a stop fifty yards from her house. And there it was. Her little sedan, parked right in the driveway. She was home. So why in God's name wasn't she answering her phone?
At 8:05 PM, I pulled up to her curb for real. The last vestiges of my earlier excitement were a bitter memory. My body was coiled with a dread I couldn't name. I grabbed the small, wrapped gift from the passenger seat; it felt impossibly heavy in my hand.
I walked up the familiar stone path, my footsteps loud in the evening quiet. A quick glance confirmed her car was still there, but her parents' minivan was gone. The house was completely dark, save for one exception: a single, soft light glowed from the upstairs window. Her bedroom.
My fist felt shaky as I pressed the doorbell. The chime echoed inside, then faded into absolute silence. I waited, counting the seconds. Nothing. I pressed it again, holding it down this time, a long, desperate peal. Still nothing. The silence from within the house was an answer in itself, and it was terrifying.
Out of a frantic, last-ditch impulse, I reached for the doorknob, expecting it to be locked and solid. My final confirmation that something was wrong. But it turned. The latch clicked open with a soft, metallic sound that echoed in the night like a gunshot. The door was unlocked. They never left the door unlocked.
I pushed it open slowly. The scent of her house—clean laundry and whatever air freshener her mom used—wafted out, familiar and yet deeply alien in this context. I stepped over the threshold from the cool night air into the dark, still warmth of the entryway.
My voice came out as a strained whisper, swallowed by the oppressive quiet. "Emma? Are you here?"
And the door opens. Don't go in, kid. For the love of God, turn around. Get in your car and drive away. Forget the gift. Forget the girl. Nothing good waits for you in that house. But he won't listen. Of course, he won't. Innocence is deaf, you see. And it's about to be silenced for good.