CHAPTER 45: THE CHILL IN THE AIR

Hello lovely readers, we've come to the end of the flashback that happened more than a year ago about Emmie.

Stay tuned, it about to get more rocky.

PRESENT DAY

NOVEMBER 2024

Amber moved silently through the modest confines of her apartment, the soft hum of the refrigerator the only sound accompanying her. The overhead light cast a pale glow over the sleek kitchen tiles, turning her shadow into a long, wavering echo on the floor.

Her hands, steady and sure, arranged containers of fruit, leftovers, and bottles of water on the middle shelf, the labels all facing out, just the way she liked it.

She didn't look at the knives. Not directly.

But they were there.

One slid snugly beneath the folded dish towels in the drawer nearest the stove. Another rested under the couch cushions, its cool hilt barely peeking from beneath the beige fabric. A third glimmered from its perch above the pantry door—strategically placed, casually threatening.

The front door had been locked, double-bolted, and reinforced with a small metal bar she rarely used. All windows were latched. Her phone was on silent but visible, screen facing up. She glanced at it now and then.

Amber wasn't scared. Not exactly.

But tonight required a different kind of caution.

Alison was coming.

It had not been long since James was brutally murdered, his eyes wide and glassy, his fingers twitching like they were trying to grasp a final thought. Alison had taken it the hardest. They all mourned him in their own way, but Alison—God, Alison had shattered.

Amber remembered the way she screamed when she got the news. A sound that didn't belong in the human register. Something feral. Animal. Uncontainable.

Now she was "better," according to the sparse updates Amber got through mutual friends. Stable. On her meds again. Living with her aunt. Writing. Drinking tea. But healing and unpredictable often shared the same skin. And Amber had learned long ago to listen to her instincts.

She shut the fridge and wiped her palms on a towel, glancing once more toward the front door. A bottle of wine sat on the counter. Red. Something cheap but drinkable. Two glasses waited beside it, untouched.

She wanted this to go well. Truly. Alison had loved James a lot—sometimes more than a lover. Amber owed it to his memory to keep the bridges intact, even the crumbling ones.

She reached up to adjust the position of the knife above the pantry. Just slightly. Not paranoid. Just… prepared.

A soft knock tapped at the door—three quick raps, then a pause.

Amber's pulse kicked. Her hand twitched instinctively toward the nearest blade but stopped halfway. She exhaled slowly and walked to the door, checking through the peephole.

Alison stood there.

Her dark hair hung in low waves around her shoulders, her coat a little too big on her slight frame. But her eyes met Amber's directly through the peephole—clear, alert, and something else. Something unreadable.

Amber unlocked the bolts one by one. The door creaked open.

"Hey," Alison said quietly.

"Hey," Amber replied, stepping aside. "Come in."

As Alison crossed the threshold, Amber couldn't help but notice the way her hands clenched and unclenched at her sides. As if holding something invisible. Or maybe just learning how to stay steady.

Amber closed the door behind her and locked it again. All three locks.

Just in case.

Amber watched as Alison walked into the apartment, her boots thudding softly against the wood floors. She didn't sit immediately. Instead, she wandered to the windows, as if checking the view, her gaze darting to the fire escape before turning back toward the wine glasses on the counter.

"Nice place," Alison said absently. "You always keep it this clean?"

Amber gave a soft snort. "You've been here before."

"Yeah. When things were... different."

A silence hung between them for a moment — a silence that knew the shape of James's laugh, his shoes kicked off by the couch, his voice humming through the apartment during late-night arguments about which movie to watch.

Alison turned to face her, arms folded. "So listen," she began, her tone shifting into something rehearsed — a blend of casual and defensive. "I'm going to a party tonight. Won't be there long. Just to show face, you know? A friend from school invited me."

Amber's brow lifted slightly. "A party? Tonight?"

Alison nodded. "I'll come here after. Probably around one."

Amber narrowed her eyes. "One a.m.? Alison, you sure that's smart?"

"I'm not drinking much," she said quickly. Too quickly. "I've got control now. I'm not going back to... that place. I promise."

But Amber had heard promises like that before. The kind that started strong and ended face-down in a puddle of cheap vodka and grief.

"Since James died," Amber said slowly, "you've been reckless. Especially with alcohol. You blacked out in Eli's car three weeks ago. You don't even remember that, do you?"

Alison flinched slightly but didn't deny it. Her voice was smaller now. "I just... I need to feel like I'm alive again. Like I'm not suffocating in that damn house with my aunt watching me like I'm gonna slit my wrists at dinner."

Amber sighed. She understood the desperation. The need to rebel against pain by grabbing chaos with both hands. But they didn't have the luxury of breakdowns — not anymore. Not with the murderer still out there. Still watching. Still unknown.

"We don't need that kind of risk," Amber said firmly. "Not with someone still out there who—"

"I know," Alison cut in, voice tight. "Don't you think I know?"

They stared at each other, emotions crackling in the air like static.

Amber finally looked away, rubbing the back of her neck. "Fine. Go. But you come here. At one. Not later. Not if you're wasted. You come here sober enough to walk straight, or don't come at all."

Alison gave a weak smile. "That's fair."

"I'm not joking," Amber added, her voice sharpening. "I don't want to find you on my doorstep in a blackout, or worse."

Alison nodded, the smile fading. "I'll be here."

Amber watched her carefully. Something about Alison tonight felt off — not just the party, not just the alcohol. There was a tension in her shoulders that wasn't grief. It was something else. A secret. A decision, maybe.

Amber didn't press. Not yet.

She'd wait. She had knives, locked doors, and an empty couch ready for one more ghost.