We were clearing dishes—well, kinda. Sarah was pretending not to exist, Mom was humming in her post-Mercedes glow, and I was half-daydreaming about zero-gravity security systems for the new house when Emma moved.
"I'll take out the trash," she said. Casual. Too casual.
We all paused like NPCs glitching in a cutscene. Emma? Volunteering? To do chores?
This was the same girl who once faked a knee injury to get out of unloading groceries.
But no one called her on it.
She grabbed the bag and slipped outside before anyone could blink.
Just her and the dark.
Just her and whatever the hell she's running from.
And I knew it wasn't about garbage.
She needs space. Time. Air. Fine.
But I'm gonna find out what's going on, whether she tells me or not.
I'm not letting her drown in silence.
Not on my watch.
The rest of the night blurred by in layers of fake calm and future dreams.
