Entanglement of Time

Chapter 6: Sympathy for the Devil

Summary: Sam and Amber have a talk. 

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The late afternoon sun cast a muted, golden haze over the neighborhood, but its warmth was long gone, leaving the Freeman house—by a technicality, it's the Macher house from the 1996 Ghostface attacks—steeped in an almost melancholic chill. Sam sat in her car for a moment, her fingers drumming lightly against the steering wheel as she studied the modest structure before her.

The house had an air of neglect, its sagging porch and overgrown lawn standing as silent witnesses to the turmoil within. Paint flaked off the wooden panels, and weeds had claimed victory over the flowerbeds. To Sam, it was the perfect metaphor for Amber Freeman herself—a strong foundation undermined by creeping rot.

She took a deep breath, steeling herself before stepping out of the car. Gravel crunched underfoot as she approached the house, her boots heavy against the quiet stillness of the late afternoon. She couldn't shake the nagging feeling that she was walking into a battlefield.

Sam knew why Tara was worried. She had felt the same unease, even before Tara voiced her concerns. It wasn't just intuition; Sam had seen the signs herself. Amber's recent behavior had raised flags too glaring to ignore.

There were the late-night phone calls Tara mentioned, the whispered conversations that stopped abruptly when anyone got too close, and a growing distance that was impossible to miss.

Sam had followed those breadcrumbs, connecting the dots until the picture was clear enough to see. Manipulation. She could feel its stink like the lingering smoke of a cigarette long stubbed out. Amber was slipping into someone else's orbit, and Sam knew the signs better than anyone—she had lived them.

The name Richie Kirsch whispered in her mind, a specter of the past and a grim warning of the future. Sam clenched her jaw. She wasn't ready to say his name out loud, not here, not yet.

The house loomed larger as she ascended the creaking steps to the porch. Her knuckles rapped against the door, the sound echoing like a warning shot.

After a pause that felt longer than it was, the door opened, revealing Amber. She stood in the doorway, her posture stiff and her expression guarded. Her dark eyes scanned Sam with thinly veiled suspicion.

"Sam?" she said, her brow furrowing. "What are you doing here?"

Sam offered a small, tight smile. "Can we talk?"

Amber frowned, her gaze darting past Sam as though expecting someone else. "Is Tara okay?"

"She's fine," Sam assured her. "But she's worried about you."

Amber's lips curled into a bitter smirk. "Of course, she is. What, did she send you to babysit me?"

"No," Sam replied evenly. Her voice was calm, deliberate, without a hint of accusation. "I came on my own."

Amber hesitated, studying Sam for a beat longer before stepping aside. "Fine. But if this turns into a lecture, I'm kicking you out."

The interior of the house was dim, the curtains drawn against the fading daylight. The air was heavy, almost stifling, as though the walls themselves were weighed down by unspoken words and unacknowledged truths.

The living room was a snapshot of disarray—empty soda cans scattered across the coffee table, a chipped ashtray balanced precariously on the edge, and a deck of cards strewn like forgotten intentions.

Sam stepped inside and lowered herself into the armchair across from the couch where Amber collapsed. She didn't comment on the mess. It wasn't the point.