Bad guy (REWRITTEN)

Chapter 30

Anna

The house was quiet when I got home that afternoon, the kind of quiet that presses against your eardrums and makes every small sound feel criminal. Mom's car wasn't in the driveway yet; Dad was probably still at the office pretending spreadsheets could fix whatever was broken between them this week. I dropped my bag by the front door, kicked off my sneakers, and padded into the kitchen in socks. The fridge light felt too bright when I opened it. I stared at the half-empty carton of oat milk and the Tupperware of leftover stir-fry like they might give me advice.

They didn't.

I closed the door, leaned my forehead against the cool stainless steel, and let out a breath I'd been holding since the last bell.

Two days. Camp. Billie.

The words kept circling like hawks. I could still feel the ghost of her palm on my cheek from the locker room, the slow drag of her lips across my skin like she was signing her name in invisible ink. Every time I blinked I saw her eyes—blue gone dark, pupils wide, watching me like I was the only thing left worth seeing.

I hated how much I wanted to be seen.

The front door clicked open twenty minutes later. Mom's heels tapped across the hardwood, keys jingling, purse hitting the counter with that familiar soft thud.

"Anna?"

"In here"

She appeared in the doorway, coat still on, hair escaping its low bun in tired wisps. She looked at me really looked and her mouth softened at the corners.

"You okay, sweetheart?"

I shrugged. "School stuff"

She nodded like she understood, even though she didn't. Not really. She never asked about Billie anymore, not after the third time I'd come home with red-rimmed eyes and a lie about allergies. Maybe she was tired of hearing the same half-truths. Maybe she was just tired.

I took a breath. "There's a school trip this weekend. Camp. Two days. Leaves Friday after last bell, back Monday morning."

Her brows lifted. "Camp?"

"Yeah. Cabins. Lake. Bonfire. The usual" I tried to make it sound boring. Routine. Not like the single most terrifying thing on my calendar.

She crossed her arms, leaned against the doorframe. "You want to go?"

No. Yes. I don't know.

"I think so" I said instead. "Sophie's going. It might be... nice. To get out"

Mom studied me for a long second. I waited for the questions—the ones about who else was going, whether I'd be safe, whether I needed new boots or a thicker sleeping bag. Instead she just sighed, soft and resigned.

"Okay"

"Okay?"

"Okay" She pushed off the frame, walked over, and pressed a kiss to the top of my head. "Just text me when you get there. And when you leave. And if anything feels off. Promise?"

"Promise"

She squeezed my shoulder once firm, grounding—then turned back toward the hallway. "Dinner's at seven. Your dad's picking up Thai"

I nodded even though she couldn't see it.

When she was gone I let my head fall forward until my forehead rested on the counter again. The granite was cold. I stayed there until my neck ached and the house filled with the smell of lemongrass and curry coming through the front door.