Texts In The Rain

Daniel was already in the driveway when the phone in my hand buzzed again.

He had the car door open, one hand on the roof, keys clenched so hard I could see the metal bite into his palm. “Get in,” he said.

I didn’t move. The screen showed another text from an unknown number, this one with a photo attached. The picture was dark and grainy, but it was still my mother’s handwriting. A line in her notebook. Ink pressed hard enough to leave a dent in the paper.

Daniel saw my face and came back up the walk. “Emily.”

I held the phone out. He read it once, then again.

Outside the river restaurant, in the rain. Victoria knew. Ask Rebecca Collins.

His mouth went flat. He looked toward the house like he could see through the walls.

“What does that mean?” I said.

He took the phone, tapped the photo bigger, then handed it back. “I’m going to Samantha’s.”

“No. We’re going together.”

“No.” His voice was calm, but his jaw worked once. “You stay here if this turns ugly.”

That was almost funny. It was already ugly.

He started for the car again, then stopped when another text came through. This one had no picture, just four words.

St. Mary’s. Ask about rain.

I stared at the screen. The room had gone too quiet around me. Even the ice maker in the kitchen sounded far away.

Daniel took the phone back. “That’s enough.”

“Dad.”

He rubbed his face with both hands, then dropped them. “I know.”

We drove with the heater on low and the wipers ticking. The streetlights smeared across the windshield. I kept staring at the notebook photo on my screen, at the corner of the page where her fingers had held it down. My mother had written like she was in a hurry.

At Samantha’s house, the porch light was on. Victoria’s car sat in the drive. Daniel killed the engine and sat for one second with both hands on the wheel.

Then he got out.

The front door opened before we reached it. Samantha stood there in leggings and a sweatshirt, her hair twisted up like she hadn’t done anything all night.

“Well,” she said, looking at me first. “This looks dramatic.”

Daniel held up my phone. “Who sent this?”

Samantha glanced at the screen and her face changed just a little. Not enough for anyone to call it out. Enough for me.

“I don’t know,” she said.

Behind her, a woman in a navy coat stepped into the hall and looked straight at me. She had a badge clipped to her bag and rain on the shoulders of her coat.

“Emily Carter?” she said. “I’m Rebecca Collins. I worked nights at St. Mary’s.”

My throat tightened.

She swallowed and looked down once, like she hated the shape of what came next.

“There was something wrong with the records,” she said. “And if your mother left that note, then I think she knew it too.”