Five

Emma Chen’s house was too quiet for someone her age. No loud music coming from her room, no laughter, no slamming of doors. Just silence, the heavy kind that only happens in a house that’s lost something which means she was still grieving the death of her best friends.

Her mother let me in reluctantly, eyes puffy and suspicious, like she was bracing for another cop with the same empty promises. When I told her I wasn’t with the sheriff, she didn’t relax, but she didn’t stop me either.

Emma was curled in a corner of the couch, knees pulled up to her chest, sleeves swallowed in oversized flannel. Her dark hair curtained her face until she pushed it back with fingers, revealing red-rimmed eyes that had seen too much for sixteen.

“You’re Elise, The lady who found Sadie’s body” she said.

Not a question.

I sat across from her, choosing the armchair instead of the empty space beside her. Too close would feel like pressure. Too far would feel like distance.

“I am,” I said. “And you’re Emma.”

Her mouth twisted. “The grieving best friend.”

It was blunt, but it cut both ways. My own ghosts stirred. I remembered what it felt like to be reduced to one thing: widow, addict, broken cop. Labels that left no room for the messy truth underneath.

“I’m not here to make you talk,” I said softly. “But I think you know something the sheriff doesn’t want to know.”

Her eyes flicked up to mine, quick, assessing. Then she reached under the couch cushion and pulled out a spiral-bound notebook.

It was bent, pages sticking out at odd angles, edges softened from use. She held it to her chest like it was both a weapon and shield.

“She wrote everything down,” Emma whispered. “Sadie. When she got scared, she wrote. When she was angry, she wrote. I told her it was stupid, that people would just call her dramatic, but she said… she said her book listened without judging and helped clear her mind”

The phrasing hit me hard. Who listened without judging. Emma smiled, wiping tears out of her eyes before she continued “We actually fought cause of this, she felt i wasn’t listening to her, but I was and was too scared to join her.”

Emma held the notebook out to me. Her hands shook.

I hesitated, then took it carefully, as if it were glass.

The first page was messy, Sadie’s handwriting looping and bold. They think I don’t see them. They think I’m just a kid. But I know what they do after dark.

The second page: lists of names. Some I recognized, business owners, local council members. Some I didn’t. At the bottom, circled twice: The Tides Club.

My pulse thudded in my ears.

Emma’s voice broke the silence. “She said if anything happened to her, I had to give it to someone who wouldn’t hide their crime”

I looked up, throat tight. “Why me?”

“I trust you,” Emma said. “You’re the only one who isn’t labeling her death as just an accident and is willing to talk…..willing to find out what actually happened”

I swallowed hard. The weight of the notebook pressed against my palms. This wasn’t just about Sadie, it was about the 17 other first who had died, it is about the justice they deserve.

Before I could respond, a knock rattled the front door. Sharp. Insistent.

Emma froze.

Her mother’s voice carried from the kitchen. “Emma? Someone’s here!”

The girl’s eyes went wide. “Hide it,” she hissed. “Now.”

I shoved the notebook into my jacket and pulled the zipper up just as footsteps approached.

The room door opened and Hank Delaney walked in.

He entered the room like he owned it, shoulders broad, gaze sharp. He looked at me first, then at Emma, then back at me again.

“What are you doing here?” His voice was low.

Emma shot me a panicked glance, then bolted upstairs without a word. Her mother appeared in the doorway, confusion etched across her face. “Mr. Delaney. I didn’t know you—”

“Just checking in,” Hank said smoothly, cutting her off. “Making sure Emma’s okay.”

He wasn’t looking at Emma’s mother. He was looking at me.

I stood, keeping my expression neutral so he doesn’t suspect I have a clue. “I was just leaving.”

His eyes flicked to my jacket immediately he stared at Emma’s mom. Then back to my face.

“I’ll walk you out,” he said.

The weather felt hot when I stepped out, I wasn't sure if it was because I was nervous or the weather was just hot despite being cold when I left to visit Emma.

Hank followed me down the steps, silent until we hit the sidewalk. Then he stopped, blocking my path. “You shouldn’t have come here.”

I lifted my chin. “You don’t get to decide where I go.”

His jaw flexed. For a moment, I thought he might reach for me, but instead he shoved his hands deep into his pockets. “That notebook—”

My breath caught. “You don’t know what I have.”

His eyes narrowed. “You think you’re the only one who cares about what happened to her? You’re not. But if you keep dragging people into this, they’ll get hurt. Starting with that girl.”

Emma’s pale face flashed in my mind. My grip on the notebook tightened beneath my jacket.

“Then maybe you should help me instead of trying to scare me off,” I snapped.

His expression hardened, but beneath it I caught something else conflict, maybe even fear.

“I can’t,” he said. “Not yet.”

And before I could press, he stepped back, turned, and walked away.

I stood there, pulse thundering, notebook hot against my chest like a second heartbeat.

He knew. He knew exactly what I had.

And the way he looked at me, like I’d just stepped off the edge of the cliff and didn’t even realize it made me wonder if I’d just taken the first step toward drowning.