The wedding photos went up on the hallway wall within a week: Dad in his chair, Emily leaning down beside him, both of them laughing at something the photographer had said.
I passed those pictures every morning and tried to smile back at them.
***
My stepmother moved into the house as if she’d always belonged there. She rearranged the spice rack, learned exactly how Dad took his tea, and started reading to him at night.
I passed those pictures every morning.
Emily was warm with me, too. Almost careful.
“I made too much soup again,” she’d say, sliding a bowl across the counter. “Sit. Eat something before you go to bed.”
“You don’t have to feed me, Emily.”
“I know I don’t have to.”
She’d smile as if the sentence meant more than it said, then turn back to the stove.
“I know I don’t have to.”
***
Dad now laughed at Emily’s terrible puns, at the way she pretended not to understand the news, and at nothing at all! I should’ve been grateful. I wanted to believe he’d found love again.
Instead, I started noticing things.
The top drawer of Emily’s nightstand was always locked. She took her phone into the laundry room to answer certain calls. When we ate dinner together, she’d ask me questions that felt, at the moment, ordinary, and only later, a little too personal.
I started noticing things.
“What was your favorite book in fourth grade?”
“Did your mother sing to you when you were small?”
“Did your mom ever tell you stories about the day you came home?”
“Why are you asking me that?” I said one night, setting my fork down.
My stepmother blinked, then softened her face. “I’m just trying to know you better. Is that wrong?”
“It’s a weird question.”
“Why are you asking me that?”
“I’m sorry. Forget I asked.”
But she didn’t forget. She wrote things down. I caught her once, closing a small notebook when I walked into the kitchen too quietly.
I told myself I was being paranoid.
Then, one night, I couldn’t sleep.
The house was quiet, the way old houses get after midnight. I went downstairs for water and stopped in the hallway because a strip of light glowed under the living room door.
I was being paranoid.
Emily was on the phone. Her voice was low, careful, and shaking.
