Chapter 4: The Storm

Emily's phone vibrated violently on the kitchen counter, drawing her attention away from the half‑chilled carrots. She wiped her hands on her apron, her heart sinking at the caller ID—*Gift*. Her friend's name flashed like a siren.

Gift blurted, voice wavering, "Em, you have to listen." Sarah had only just returned from addressing her colleagues. She saw David. Grandview. With Jane. They went into a room, and the knife clattered to the floor. Emily felt a squeeze in her chest; her breathing grew shallow. "No," she croaked, even though David's feeble excuses—*late meetings, dinners with customers*—suddenly reeked of decay.

"I am sorry, Em. Sarah snapped pictures. I'm sending them—"

Emily's call dropped. She dashed out the door, keys in hand, apron torn, with denial and fury threatening her lips. Her grip on the steering wheel turned white‐knuckled, the drive a blur of red lights and horn blasts.

The lobby of Grandview shimmered like a slap. Emily scanned the room, her heels *click‑clacking* just as the elevator doors opened. There. David froze mid‑laugh, tie askew. Jane—*Jane*, her damn yoga buddy—adjusted her dress strap. She felt guilty.

"Emily," David advanced, palms outstretched. (Voice rings) "*Hell*?" Emily hissed. "You're here with this... this... *homewrecker*?"

Jane narrowed her smirk. A rasping voice answered. Jane's agitation twisted. A deep sneer replied. Jane's expression contorted. A tired growl inquired. Jane's lips tightened. A dark sneer responded. Jane's words contorted. A harsh judge replied. Jane's face twisted. A drowsy growl responded. Jane's brows furrowed. A piercing glare silenced. Jane's cheeks pressed together. A question rasped. A rasping voice scolded. Her tongue lashed. A stinging sneer replied. Were these isolated calls, I would have laughed at the harsh cruelty of her tone and accepted that she was far more than death—as she would be once we reached the Nachi Falls. Her shoulders slumped.

The tone of a rasping voice responded: were this not the tragic truth of a middle‑aged man found with his head pressed against the wrapped‑up tale of the rope that would carry his body to its final resting place two hundred feet below—the blows. Hands rose to dab at long‑remembered tears. But what you truly want to know is whether her sons noticed the marks on their mother's legs—those marks or even the yellow lightning bolt shaped like a tree frond on the back of Junichi Ohara's black shirt—that were somehow symbolic of her double life—her connection to both the lifeblood of the Nachi Shrine and the fabric of physical existence translated into the four elements—transcending all and converging—as their father lay there while the Black Curtain of 1877 fell. In that instant, "I—" she sneered. "—often read this book," a grating voice cackled—twenty‑five times a day and would not cease until every word was spoken: "He was a**hole, and you have every good reason! *Homewrecker*? Look in the mirror, Stepford Lady. At least I don't beg for his scraps."

David faded into a particularly drab hue. "Em, it's not; we were simply—" Emily's chuckle cracked, "Planning your next lie? F‑U in room 304?"

Jane reeked of vanilla and smoke as she moved closer. Perhaps he would want you if you weren't such a big martyr.

Emily's hand flew out before she could think—a *crack* sounded. Jane fell and screamed while the lobby audience gasped.

Jane lunged, but security personnel intervened. "Crazy bitch!" one barked, the radio crackling, "Out! *Now*."

David stopped motionless, mouth wide open. "Em—*please*—"

She did not stay. She ran, her vision hazed, onlookers' whispers trailing her. The drive back was a blur of swerving and snotty sobbing. Rage had iced over by the time she slammed the door. She threw his suits and wedding ring upstairs into the trash.

But silence settled in as she crumpled onto the bed. The question gnawed at her: Next what?

There was no response here—only the darkness and the hollow, deafening *tick‑tick* of the broken clock.