Chapter 1: The Homecoming

Emma stared out the window of the train, the city lights blurring into streaks of gold and blue. Her heart jackhammered against her ribs. It had been three years since she left, and every mile brought her closer to the family she’d tried so hard to escape. She told herself she wasn’t nervous, but the sweat on her palms said otherwise.

The station was mostly empty when she arrived. The air outside was heavy with the scent of rain and car exhaust. Emma gripped the handle of her suitcase tighter, scanning the lot for her mom’s battered Honda. When she spotted it, her breath caught. She wasn’t ready, not really, but she forced herself forward.

Her mom got out and pulled Emma into a fierce hug, the kind that made her bones ache. “You look so thin, Em. Are you eating in the city?”

Emma smiled, her voice tight. “I eat, Mom. I promise.”

The ride home was filled with the usual small talk—work, the weather, how her sister Claire was so excited for the wedding. But beneath every word was a tension Emma couldn’t shake. The radio played softly, some oldies station, and Emma let herself sink into the familiar hum of her mother’s world.

When they reached the house, the porch light flickered just like it always had. Inside, laughter spilled from the kitchen. Emma froze in the hallway, suitcase dangling from her hand. She could hear Claire’s voice, bright and quick, and then a deeper one—Mark. The fiancé.

Her heart stuttered. Say something, anything, she begged herself.

Claire barreled into the hallway, arms wide. “Emma! You made it!” She smelled like vanilla and hairspray, her smile a beacon.

Mark followed, giving Emma that awkward, half-smile teens use when they’re not sure if they’re in trouble. He was taller than she remembered, his hair a little longer, his eyes darker. “Hey, Emma. Glad you’re here.”

Emma managed a nod, her throat tight. “Yeah. Me too.”

Dinner was a blur. The clink of silverware, the scent of roast chicken, Mark’s laughter blending with Claire’s. Emma wrapped her hands around a chipped diner mug, the coffee inside gone cold but comforting. She tried to focus on the food, but her gaze kept drifting to Mark, to the way his hand brushed against Claire’s wrist. Every touch between them sent a hot, sour jealousy twisting through Emma’s gut.

After dinner, Claire dragged Mark outside to show him the new swing her dad had hung from the old oak. Emma watched from the window. The playground swings creaked in the breeze, and somewhere a kid’s laughter tangled with the distant wail of a siren. Emma pressed her forehead to the glass, fear crawling up her spine, cold and electric. She wasn’t sure she could survive this week.