Chapter 1 - The Girl Everyone Thought Was Fine)
Three days earlier, Emma Mercer woke before her alarm because her heart was beating too fast.
She remained motionless beneath the thin gray blanket, staring at the ceiling of the bedroom she had slept in since she was nine years old.
The digital clock beside her bed showed 5:41 a.m.
She had forty-nine minutes before she needed to get ready for school.
Usually she would have rolled over.
Instead, she concentrated on breathing.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
The strange pressure beneath her ribs had been happening for almost a week.
At first she blamed stress.
She was eighteen.
Graduation was seven weeks away.
Her college applications had been submitted.
Her mother wanted her to attend the community college twenty minutes from home.
Emma had quietly applied to a nursing program three states away.
She had not told Mom yet.
That alone seemed capable of producing chest pain.
But this felt different.
Emma sat up.
The room tilted.
She grabbed the mattress.
After a few seconds, the dizziness passed.
She stood and walked barefoot toward the bathroom.
Caleb was already inside brushing his teeth.
“Move.”
He stared at her reflection.
“You look weird.”
“Good morning to you too.”
“No. Seriously.”
Emma reached for her toothbrush.
Caleb stopped brushing.
“You’re pale.”
“I’m always pale.”
“You look vampire pale.”
“Thank you, Dr. Caleb.”
He rinsed his mouth.
Caleb was fourteen, annoyingly observant and absolutely incapable of letting anything go once he decided it mattered.
He watched Emma lean against the counter.
“You okay?”
“Just tired.”
“You went to bed at nine.”
“I know.”
“That’s grandma bedtime.”
Emma smiled despite herself.
“Go get dressed.”
Caleb left, but he looked back once before disappearing down the hallway.
Downstairs, Mom was making coffee.
Diane Mercer had the kind of morning energy that made everyone else feel lazy merely by existing.
At forty-five, she could prepare breakfast, answer emails, fold laundry and criticize three people before seven o’clock.
“Emma.”
“I’m coming.”
“You said you’d empty the dishwasher last night.”
Emma stopped halfway into the kitchen.
“I forgot.”
“You forgot.”
“I was exhausted.”
Mom turned.
“You’re eighteen, not eighty.”
Daniel sat at the table reading something on his tablet.
He lowered it.
“She said she’s tired.”
Mom gave him a look.
Daniel had been Emma’s stepfather for six years.
He knew when to intervene.
He also knew when an intervention would make things worse.
“You were tired yesterday,” Mom continued. “You were tired Sunday. You were tired when I asked you to vacuum.”
“I know.”
“I work all day too.”
“I said I know.”
Mom pointed toward the dishwasher.
“Then do it.”
Emma bent to open it.
The pressure in her chest tightened.
She stopped.
Daniel noticed.
“You all right?”
“Yeah.”
Mom had already turned back toward the coffee machine.
Emma emptied half the dishwasher before she needed to sit.
She did it quietly.
She had learned that announcing discomfort in their house often turned discomfort into an argument.
At school, climbing the stairs to the second floor left her breathless.
Her friend Lily noticed.
“Did you run here?”
Emma leaned against the locker.
“No.”
“You’re breathing like you did.”
“I think I’m getting sick.”
“You should go to the nurse.”
Emma shook her head.
Her mother had already accused her of missing too much school after two absences the previous month.
One was for a migraine.
The other was because Mom needed someone home when a plumber came.
She had received criticism for both.
“I’m fine.”
The words came automatically.
By lunchtime, Emma’s right calf had started aching.
She rubbed it beneath the cafeteria table.
Lily frowned.
“Now what?”
“My leg hurts.”
“You are eighty.”
“That’s what Mom said.”
They laughed.
Emma did not think about the pain again until she stood up.
A sharp pull traveled behind her knee.
She winced.
“You sure you’re okay?”
“Probably pulled something.”
“When?”
Emma paused.
“I don’t know.”
That afternoon, Emma walked home instead of taking the bus because she wanted fresh air.
Halfway there, she regretted it.
Her chest felt heavier.
Every breath seemed slightly too shallow.
Not impossible.
Just insufficient.
When she reached the front porch, Caleb was sitting on the steps.
“You took forever.”
“Thanks.”
He looked at her.
Then at the street behind her.
“Did you run?”
“No.”
Caleb stood.
“You’re doing that breathing thing again.”
“What breathing thing?”
“That.”
Emma pushed past him.
Inside, Mom called from the living room.
“Shoes.”
Emma looked down.
She had barely crossed the doorway.
“Sorry.”
She removed them.
“There are towels in the dryer.”
“I just got home.”
“So did I.”
“Can I have five minutes?”
Mom appeared around the corner.
Her expression changed slightly when she saw Emma.
For half a second, concern appeared.
Then irritation replaced it.
“You stayed up too late on your phone again, didn’t you?”
“No.”
“You always say no.”
Daniel came through the garage door carrying groceries.
“What happened?”
“Nothing,” Emma said.
Mom answered at the same time.
“She’s exhausted because apparently school is harder than having a job.”
Daniel looked at Emma.
“You sick?”
“I don’t know.”
“Fever?”
“I don’t think so.”
“We can take you to urgent care.”
Mom sighed.
“She doesn’t need urgent care because she’s tired.”
Emma hated conflict more than she feared illness.
“I’m okay.”
Daniel hesitated.
“Tell me if that changes.”
Mom walked away.
Emma carried the laundry basket upstairs.
Halfway up, she had to stop.
Caleb followed behind her.
He lowered his voice.
“You are not okay.”
Emma looked down at him.
“Please don’t start something with Mom.”
“I’m not.”
“You will.”
“She never listens when you say you’re sick.”
“Caleb.”
“She doesn’t.”
Emma shifted the basket.
“Drop it.”
He did.
For the moment.
That night Emma was getting ready for bed when her phone vibrated.
Unknown Number.
She almost ignored it.
Then she opened the message.
Do you know what your mother told you about your biological father?
Emma stared at the screen.
She had not heard anyone refer to Michael Reed as her biological father in years.
According to Mom, Michael had died when Emma was a baby.
Car accident.
Different state.
No funeral Emma remembered.
No photographs except one Mom claimed to have lost.
No grandparents.
No family stories.
Michael Reed was less a person than a blank space in Emma’s childhood.
She typed:
Who is this?
The reply arrived twenty seconds later.
Someone who thinks you deserve the truth.
Emma sat slowly on the edge of her bed.
Another message appeared.
If you ever start having unexplained chest pain or trouble breathing, do not ignore it.
Emma’s fingers went cold.
She read the sentence again.
Then again.
Her chest tightened.
She typed:
Who are you?
No response came.
Emma stood and crossed the hallway.
Mom’s bedroom door was open.
She could hear Daniel showering.
Mom sat on the bed folding clothes.
“Mom?”
“Yeah?”
“What did Dad die from?”
Mom continued folding.
“Daniel?”
“No. Michael.”
Her mother’s hands stopped.
It lasted less than a second.
Then she picked up another shirt.
“Why are you asking?”
“Just wondering.”
“You know how he died.”
“Car accident.”
“Yes.”
“Was he sick before that?”
Mom looked at her.
“No.”
The answer came too quickly.
Emma noticed.
“So no heart problems?”
“No.”
“Blood problems?”
Mom’s face hardened.
“What is this about?”
Emma almost showed her the phone.
Instead she said, “Nothing.”
“Emma.”
“I was just curious.”
Mom placed the shirt down.
“Your father has been dead for seventeen years. There is nothing to be curious about.”
Something about the sentence made Emma uncomfortable.
Not sad.
Not defensive.
Final.
Like a door being locked.
Emma returned to her room.
Her phone vibrated again.
May you like
The unknown sender had finally replied.
She lied.
