Chapter27
I snatchedmy phone from the cluttered desk, my fingers fumbling with the screen until Matt's name lit up. I returned to the bungalow, wanting to check in on them at home. The wind howled against the sides of the small cabin. As the call connected, I steadied my breathing, bracing for his voice.
"Hey, it's me," I said.
"Everything okay?" His words came through crisp, the calm in his voice soothing me.
"Quick check-in. How are the kids?"
"Safe, sound, and submerged in pizza," he chuckled. "Alex tried to build a pizza tower, but Angel kept swiping the pepperoni off the top."
I laughed softly, imagining their antics. "That sounds like them. Remember last week when Angel insisted her teddy bear could play hide and seek better than anyone else?"
"Oh, yes," Matt said with a grin in his voice. "And Alex was so determined to prove her wrong that he ended up under the bed, claiming victory when no one could find him."
"That was fun," I murmured, swallowing the lump that had formed in my throat. I missed them all so, so much. "Matt, this is… it's a lot."
"Talk to me, Eva Rae. What’s going on?"
"Later," I promised, my gaze drifting to the darkening sky outside. “Just wanted to hear your voice and know that things are okay at home.”
"All is well. Be careful," he said, soft yet firm.
"Always am." I ended the call, my resolve hardening like the tropical timber walls surrounding me. I went to Olivia’s room and knocked, then opened the door. She wasn’t there.
“Olivia?”
“In the bathroom,” she yelled from behind the closed door.
The room was a mess. I walked inside, picked up her shorts from the floor, folded them, and put them on the bed.
The room felt smaller as I turned toward Olivia's belongings, which were scattered across all the furniture.
“What a mess,” I mumbled, and I started to pick up pieces of clothing. “I can’t believe this.”
And then—there it was. Tucked beneath a stack of beachwear, I found a white T-shirt. I lifted it up in the light, then gasped. There was a big crimson stain across the white cotton. My pulse hammered, echoing the thunder that shook the foundations of the bungalow.
"Jesus," I breathed, seizing the T-shirt, the bloodstain stark and accusing. I scanned the room, half-expecting a natural explanation to present itself. None did.
Olivia came out of the bathroom. Our eyes met as she stood in the doorway, staring first at me, then at the shirt between my hands.
"Olivia!" The name sliced through the humid air, each syllable heavy with accusation and dread. I thrust the T-shirt forward like a flag of war, its stain a grotesque painting.
"Explain this—now!"
Her eyes, those pools reflecting our shared stubborn streak, widened in shock. Her hands fluttered to her mouth, her fingers trembling. Images of the cut on Mark’s hand flashed before my eyes.
Was this Mark’s blood?
"Mom, I—I don't—" she started, her voice faltering.
"Blood, Olivia." My words were steel, clipped, and cold. "Whose is it?"
"I don't know," Olivia stammered, her composure fracturing. Tears shimmered on the brink of spilling over; her denial felt weak against the roar of the wind that battered the bungalow.
"I don’t buy that for a minute! This isn't just some teenage mess you can sweep under the rug," I pressed, the urgency pricking my skin. “This is very serious.”
"Mom, please," she pleaded, her breath hitching. "It's not?—"
