“I know you’re a reporter,” she says, her hazel eyes locking on mine. “For that trashy entertainment news show.”
A chill creeps down my spine despite the warmth of the blanket still wrapped around me.
“Is that why you’re here?”
My pulse hammers in my chest.
This is the moment I could tell the truth. I could come clean, explain that I wasn’t here to ambush anyone. That I had questions, sure, but my instincts brought me here long before the network ever could.
But I lie.
“No,” I say, forcing my voice to stay steady. “Vacation.”
Phern doesn’t react right away. Just sits there, still watching me.
Then she gives a slow, almost imperceptible nod before she stands and smooths her sweater. “Get some rest. You’re gonna need it.”
And with that, she walks out leaving behind a steaming mug and a silence that feels like it knows too much.
I exhale slowly, but it shudders out of me, uneven and shaky.
My eyes sting. At first I try to ignore it, but the burn turns into tears, hot and sudden, welling before I can stop them. I blink fast. Sniffle. Wipe them away with the sleeve of Sam’s flannel shirt like that’ll somehow erase the truth.
I should’ve just told her. Should’ve looked Phern in the eye and owned it. But I didn’t. Because I feared what she’d say, what she’d think. And maybe even scared of what it would mean if I admitted why I was really here.
That trashy entertainment news show.
That’s how people see me. That’s what they think I do.They don’t see the hours I pour into a story. The instinct. The care. The questions I ask that no one else wants to.
They don’t see the art in it.
They don’t see the journalism.
They just see gossip.
I draw in a shaky breath and wipe my face again.
And truthfully? Phern had every right to ask why I was here. I’ve seen what Sam’s been through. The headlines, the rumors, the twisted stories designed to sell more clicks. He’s been dragged through hell by people like me.
But I wasn’t going to do that. That wasn’t the point of this trip. I just wanted to know why he left. Why he disappeared. Why the music stopped. I wanted to understand. That’s it.
But maybe that’s just semantics. Maybe that’s the lie.
Because what I did. The research, the travel, the arrival. All of it was an invasion of privacy.
And now I’m not just metaphorically too close to the story. I’m literally stuck in his house. Wrapped in his clothes. Sleeping in his bed.
Jesus.
I bury my face in my hands, heart pounding, as the walls of the room seem to draw in tighter.
What the hell have I gotten myself into?
I’m still sitting on the bed with my palms over my face, when I feel it. That unmistakable shift in the air.
The soft creak of floorboards.
A change in weight in the room.
