The kitchen was awash in warm, amber light, casting golden hues across the marble countertop and highlighting the quiet chaos of dinner in progress. The smell of roasted garlic and thyme drifted from the oven, where Mariah—ever the experimental au pair—had taken it upon herself to make something she claimed was "rustic French countryside."
Harper sat at the kitchen island, the far end, hunched over her laptop like it was a fortress. Her fingers clicked the keys in quiet, deliberate patterns, navigating through encrypted tabs and a half-written plan that felt like it was either reckless or genius—there was never much of a difference in her world.
She had written and gotten an email back from Sam Y. He'd agreed to meet her tonight. Late. Quiet. Somewhere tucked just out of sight in Glenwood.
But the logistics were the hard part. Not the lie—Harper was good at lies. It was the getting out part. She wasn't allowed off the property after dusk. Her probation officer had made that clear. One misstep, and she'd be back in the system faster than anyone could say "rehabilitation."
The soft scrape of a dish behind her snapped her from her thoughts.
Mariah's voice floated in, honeyed and unaware. "Whatcha working on, Harper?"
Harper startled just slightly, her fingers scrambling to click a tab. The college application portal popped up, sterile and blue and boring. She turned her head just enough to look at Mariah, forcing a neutral expression.
"College applications." she answered, her voice flat but passable.
Mariah was wiping her hands on a floral dish towel, her cheeks flushed from the heat of the oven. "Ooooh, that is exciting! Do you know what you want to study yet?"
Harper hesitated, eyes still on the screen. The cursor blinked in time with her heartbeat.
"Writing, probably." she murmured.
Mariah smiled, moving to stir something on the stovetop. "That makes sense. You always struck me as the artistic type. The brooding, poetic Baldwin."
Harper huffed a quiet laugh at that—just a breath of amusement.
"I want to write a book one day." she added without fully thinking.
"Oh yeah?" Mariah turned slightly, her interest piqued. "About what?"
Harper met her eyes for a beat longer than she meant to. There was something vulnerable in her gaze, just for a second.
"My life."
Mariah blinked in surprise, then softened. "So... an autobiography?"
Harper shrugged. "I guess so."
Mariah tilted her head. "Well, that's wonderful. I'd read it. I think a lot of people would. You've... definitely lived to say the least."
Harper didn't respond to that. She didn't need to. The silence between them said plenty.
Just then, Jackson blew in like a gust of wind—hoodie tangled around his torso, socks mismatched, hair still damp from the shower he clearly hadn't dried off from.
"What are you doing?" he asked, already halfway into the fridge before circling back and leaning over her shoulder like a nosy little gremlin.
Harper stiffened immediately, her body snapping into alert. She yanked her shoulder away and angled her laptop slightly, her hand subtly dragging it closer to her chest. Her eyes flicked toward Jackson, narrowed and unimpressed.
He slurped from a juice pouch like a child, giving her a sideways glance—the kind only a younger brother could master. One that said I know what you're really up to, and I won't say a word...
Their eyes locked briefly. Harper's stare hardened.
Jackson just smiled and wandered about like nothing had happened, whistling under his breath.
Mariah hadn't noticed the tension. She was too busy plating food now, humming to herself, the picture of domestic calm.
Harper's fingers returned to her keyboard, the blinking cursor on Sam's email like a heartbeat in her chest.
She didn't have a plan yet. Not a full one. But she had motivation. And that was enough to make her dangerous.
The soft creak of the front door echoed faintly through the house, just enough to snag Mariah's attention.
"Did someone just come in?" she asked absently, more to the walls than anyone in particular. She gave a light frown and exited the kitchen, heels tapping lightly against the tile as she headed toward the entrance hall.
"Aura? Is that you?"
The moment she disappeared around the corner, Jackson appeared again like a ghost—swift, casual, and unbothered. He leaned in closer, chewing something obnoxiously loud. A trail of crumbs dotted the path behind him like evidence he'd never bother cleaning up.
He sidled over to the island, leaned forward on his elbows. "So... what's your plan?"
Harper didn't glance up. Her fingers hovered over her keyboard, then drifted to her touchpad, idly clicking through tabs again like she was keeping her panic at bay with movement alone.
"There isn't one." she said finally, her voice low, even, and deceptively calm.
Jackson blinked. "You're serious?"
"I didn't think I'd actually hear back from them, okay?"
Harper's tone sharpened a little, her guard going up. "I just sent the message because—I don't know—I had to do something. And now I actually have a meeting and no plan. So yeah. I'm pretty serious."
Jackson made a low hum in his throat and tilted his head. "You're actually gonna try sneaking out tonight? While you're on probation? That's either bold as hell or monumentally stupid. I don't know whether to be proud of you or pissed."
She gave him a sharp look, but her eyes were more tired than angry. "Probably both."
He watched her for a long second, then let out a short, resigned sigh. "Alright. I'll cover for you."
That made her pause.
"But you gotta give me something better than 'I'm out for air' in case things go sideways."
He reached across the island, snagging a grape from the bowl she'd been ignoring. "You want me to lie for you, I need details. I need a script. I'm not trying to end up on the wrong end of one of Mom's 'I'm not mad, just disappointed' speeches. You know that woman weaponises guilt like a pro."
Harper gave a reluctant smile, then shook her head. "Okay. Um... maybe say I went to the park. That I needed space. That I was triggered or spiraling or whatever buzzword they always use."
Jackson nodded slowly. "Emotionally distressed. Got it." He pantomimed jotting a note on his hand. "Do I cry too, or is that overkill?"
"Definitely overkill." Harper smirked despite herself. "You're not that good of an actor."
"Rude." He leaned in a little closer, lowering his voice. "Harp... you're really doing this? You're gonna go see someone who actually managed to get out? And risk getting locked up again—for Riley? Is she even worth it?"
Harper didn't answer right away. Her gaze dropped to her laptop, to the old camp photos she'd just closed, to the survivor forum still running in a hidden tab.
"I just have to know if she's okay, that's all." she said softly. "She's the only one who made that place somewhat bearable. I can't stop thinking about her, and if she's still stuck in that place..."
She trailed off, biting her lip. "I just need to know. This person knows how to get in and out."
Jackson sobered. The usual teasing fell away from his posture, replaced with something gentler—protective, even.
"Then go." he said. "I'll keep them off your back. Just... don't get caught, alright? I'm not doing glass visits and prison vending machines again."
Harper's eyes stung. She swallowed hard. "Thanks, Jacks."
"Don't thank me until you're back in bed and still technically un-incarcerated."
From the hallway, Mariah's voice drifted back: "False alarm! Door just didn't latch properly. Jackson can you text Aura and ask her if she is coming home for dinner?"
Harper immediately flicked her browser back to her "College Application 2025" tab. Jackson stood straight again, grabbing a stray cracker from the table as if none of it had happened.
"Yeah, let me go get my phone."
As he walked past her, he paused, hand briefly hovering near her shoulder like he might touch it. He didn't. He just gave her a look—a knowing one, the kind siblings only learn after years of silent trust—and then disappeared down the hall.
Harper stared at her screen, her heart pounding louder than before. The cursor blinked at her from the blank application essay box.
She wasn't going to be writing about herself tonight.
She had somewhere else to be.