Page 18 of What They Say

She didn’t know if she’d ever see Chase again.

But with him, the idea of letting someone in didn’t feel like the stupidest thing she could do.

Instead, it felt brave.

***

Chase

The house was quiet when Chase woke up gasping, sheets tangled around his legs and his heart hammering like he’d just run a mile. The dream had been the same one that kept coming back—dark rooms, muffled screams, his mother’s voice calling his name before it cut off into nothing. He sat up, dragging a hand through his sweat-damp hair, trying to shake the images of blood and shadows.

The bedroom door creaked open softly. Eddie poked her head in, her robe pulled tight around her and a glass of water in one hand. She’d clearly been awake.

“Another one?” she asked gently, stepping inside without turning on the harsh overhead light. The hallway lamp cast a warm glow that made the room feel less like a trap.

Chase nodded, embarrassed. “Sorry if I woke you.”

Eddie sat on the edge of the bed and handed him the water. “You didn’t. I was reading. Bear’s still out in the garage tinkering with that bike—he gets restless when Mason calls.” She studied him for a moment, her expression kind but unflinching. “You want to talk about it?”

He took a long drink, the cool water helping ground him. “Same stuff. My mom. The things I overheard about how she, what she was...and, like, how she was ended.” He didn’t say the words—kidnapped, tortured, mutilated—but Eddie seemed to understand anyway.

She reached over and squeezed his shoulder, the touch maternal in a way that made his throat tighten. “That’s a lot for anyone to carry, especially at your age. You’re safe here, Chase. Bear and I’ve got your back. The whole club does. And whatever nightmares come, they don’t get to win. You hear me?”

Chase managed a small, grateful smile. “Yeah. I hear you.”

Eddie stood, ruffling his hair like he was still a kid. “Try to get some more sleep. Tomorrow’s another day to build something better than what came before.”

She left the door cracked and the hall light on, just like she always did after these nights. Chase lay back down, staring at the ceiling, the faint sounds of Bear working in the garage drifting through the house like a lullaby. For the first time in a long while, the darkness felt a little less lonely.

Chapter Five

Kath

Kath flopped backwards onto her bed, phone propped against a stack of pillows so the camera caught her face. The room was dark except for the glow of her bedside lamp and the blue light from her screen. She hit the video call button before she could chicken out.

Emy picked up on the second ring.

Her best friend’s face filled the screen—messy bun, oversized college hoodie, and the familiar worried crease between her eyebrows that Kath had seen a thousand times.

“Hey, stranger,” Kath said, forcing a bright smile. “You look like you’re one bad day away from burning the dorm down.”

Emy let out a tired laugh and rubbed her eyes. “You have no idea. God, I needed to see your face. How are you?”

Kath opened her mouth to tell her everything—about the bike, the diner, the boy with the intense gray eyes who made her stomach flip—but Emy’s expression stopped her cold. Her friend looked...defeated.

“Talk to me,” Kath said instead, softening her voice. “What happened?”

Emy groaned and leaned back, the camera angle shifting to show the cluttered dorm room behind her. “I didn’t get it. The director spot for the big media piece this semester. The one I’ve been prepping for since last year. They gave it to some film-major trust-fund kid who’s never even held a camera before.”

“Emy...”

“I know, right?” Emy’s voice cracked. “I stayed up for three nights straight editing my reel. I had this whole vision of raw, honest, real stories from students who actually have something to say. And they picked some polished bullshit with perfect lighting and zero soul.”

Kath’s heart squeezed. She hated hearing that tone in Emy’s voice—the one that said the world was winning again.

The memory hit her like it always did—sharp and sudden.

Two years ago, just after midnight, a soft but insistent knock had pulled Kath out of a restless sleep. She’d crept to the front door with Maudie right behind her, both of them in pajamas, hearts pounding. When they opened it, Emy stood on the porch, drenched from the pouring rain, a faded duffel bag clutched tight against her chest like a shield. Water streamed off her hair and clothes, pooling at her feet. Her eyes were wide and haunted, and even in the dim porch light, Kath could see the bruises blooming along her arms and the side of her neck—ugly fingerprints that told a story no one should ever have to live.