Part One
Before
Chapter One
21 years old
“Hannah?” I hear my name being called through a sleepy haze. “Hannah, baby, wake up. Your phone is blowing up,” Logan mumbles, his voice gravelly from sleep. Groaning, I snuggle deeper into his warm chest. Sunday afternoon is for napping, and I have no desire to check my notifications. After a busy week of lectures and assignments, we deserve this quiet time alone together. Why did my past self forget to silence her phone?
“Turn it off,” I whine, “I just want to sleep.” We are pressed tight together, half my body draped over his, on the sectional couch in my tiny apartment. It is way too big for my small living room but it’s ridiculously comfortable. A heavy fleece blanket is draped over us, and I can hear Hotchner from Criminal Minds talking quietly in the background. This is pure bliss and it’s currently being disrupted by the chime of my phone.
Student housing was fun for a while; a bunch of teenagers living free and in the wild for the first time with next tono supervision. Spending their student loans on questionable things and eating whatever they want, whenever they want.
But the thrill of it died quickly. By the end of my first year, I knew I needed a space of my own if I was going to pull more than a C average. Somewhere I could actually focus on studying and get enough sleep. Thankfully, my parents agreed.
Technically, I live alone but most of Logan’s things are here, and he plans to officially move in at the end of the semester. It just makes sense for both of us. Though our romantic relationship is relatively new, we have been best friends since we were in second grade.
The notifications continue to chime annoyingly. I have a distinct tone for each of my parents, so I know it’s not either of them, but I should probably check and see what’s going on.
“Ugh. Can you look and see who it is?” I ask, burying my face further into his soft hoodie, inhaling the fresh scent of his fabric softener combined with spicy body wash. I feel him reach across my body to grab my phone off the coffee table, knocking his sketch pad and pencils onto the floor in the process. He slowly pulls himself up into a sitting position, adjusting me as he goes to straddle his lap.
“Who is it?” I ask, pushing my blonde loose curls from my face. When Logan doesn’t respond right away, I look up at his puzzled expression.
“This is weird, you have been tagged several times in the Emerley News Facebook group.” He looks adorable with his nose scrunched up and light brown hair disheveled from sleep.
“That sounds fake. Emerley isn’t big enough to have their own Facebook group.” I roll my eyes dramatically before resting my cheek on his solid chest again. But of course, they do. The small town we grew up in has 4000 year-round residents – give or take a few – and two stoplights. Most of the activity in the group consists of bored middle-aged women posting aboutcurrent events and yard sales. Men share traffic reports and weather updates. You know, only the most important things in a small town. But it has also become a go-to forum for neighbours to air their grievances sometimes passive-aggressively and sometimes outright. Because that’s very adult of them.
“There are a lot, Hannah. You should check and see what’s going on.” He tries to hand me my phone.
“I’m not even active in the group. I’m sure someone has just tagged everyone and I’m getting notified with all the responses. You can check if you want, I’m quite happy to sit right here.” I smirk as I adjust myself on his lap and nibble on his neck.
“Behave.” He laughs, playfully smacking my ass.
I feel his body tense under me as he unlocks my phone and opens the app.
“What is it? Did Mrs. Wilson’s cat go missing again?” I gasp dramatically sitting back, holding a hand to my chest because that has really happened. The elderly woman was in a total panic last fall, and half the neighbourhood was on high alert. She was eventually found sleeping under her own porch. The cat, not Mrs. Wilson.
He scowls as he silently scrolls through the notifications on my phone. “What’s going on?” When I reach for it, he holds it out of my grasp. “Logan, give me my phone.” I swat at him playfully.
“Umm, there’s some pictures. You don’t need to see them.” He shuts the app quickly before I can peek.
“I’ve been tagged so someone must want me to see them.” I reach again, and this time, Logan reluctantly hands me the phone. Opening the app, I tap on my notifications.
Emerley News, February 1
Posted by user whiterook16, 2:15 p.m.
Displayed there for everyone in the group to see are a few black-and-white photos of my father, Richard Knight, his hand resting intimately on the lower back of a light-haired woman. They are standing a little closer than what most would consider appropriate, and it looks like he is whispering in her ear. Her features have been altered so you can’t make out her identity, and I’m unfamiliar with the location.
Okay, I’ll admit that it’s very weird but not newsworthy until I read the caption.
“So much for family values, eh, Dick? This definitely isn’t your wife. I wonder how Hannah will feel about this?”
I audibly gasp. “What the hell? Who is whiterook16 and why did they tag me in this shit?” I look at Logan for the answers. My dad is one of the best men I know and for someone to insinuate otherwise is wild to me. He would never betray my mom like that; he loves her.
“No idea,” he shakes his head in disbelief, staring down at my phone.
Within minutes of posting, the comments start rolling in and guessing who my father, a successful realtor, is cozying up to. And as the caption reads, it’s definitely not my mother.
