Then, still not looking at me, she says, “Later. Okay?”
It’s not a no.
I don’t push. Just lean back, nod like I don’t care, and go back to my chicken.
Dinner drags. Ma insists on seconds. There’s pie. Coffee. Too much noise. Too much laughter. I go through the motions, but my focus keeps sliding back to Sabine.
Eventually, the goodbye routine starts. Coats pulled from hooks. Hugs passed around. Kids half-asleep and sugar-sticky.
I help clear a few plates, just enough to not draw attention, then slip out and find Sabine by the back door. She’s standing in the half-light, arms folded, jacket on.
“You ready to talk?” I ask, voice low.
She hesitates. “Cass—”
“Let’s go outside,” I say, forcing a smirk. She already said she’d tell me. I’m not letting her walk it back. “Unless you’re scared of a little fresh air?”
She rolls her eyes but does as I say. “Fine.”
She doesn’t look at her phone this time.
But I know whatever’s on it is coming with her.
“What’s up?” I ask once we’re on the veranda, leaning against the railing, arms crossed.
The sun’s about to set, but there’s still enough light to see how peaceful it looks out here. The clouds drift slow, their edges tinged gold, and the air smells like warm pavement and Mom’s lavender.
If not for my fucked-up state of mind, it would feel like paradise.
Sabine crosses her arms too, mirroring me, but hers isn’t casual. It’s a wall. Her posture says she doesn’t want to be here. Doesn’t want to talk. Too bad.
“Nothing, Cass,” she says, too fast. “I just—” She stops herself, drags a hand through her hair like it’ll buy her time. “I didn’t want to bring it up in there.”
I don’t say anything. Just wait. Let the silence stretch between us.
Eventually, she exhales, sharp and uneven. “There’s been… some stuff going on. It’s not serious. Just weird. Mom doesn’t need the stress.”
“Stuff,” I echo, voice flat. “That’s vague.”
She shifts her weight, eyes skimming the garden.
“Some weird messages,” she says finally. A few phone calls. Always from blocked numbers. At first, I thought it was just spam, but they keep coming.”
“What kind of messages?” I ask.
She hesitates again. Her hand moves slowly but eventually she pulls her phone from her pocket. Unlocks it. Scrolls. Then holds it out to me.
The screen lights up with a list of short, quiet horrors.
Funny how routine makes people blind. You park in the same spot every day.
Lavender perfume. A good choice. Mother's influence, perhaps?
I wonder what you dream about.
I read them once. Then again.
They’re short. Casual. But too specific. Too familiar. Every word chosen with precision.
