2 - Saltwater Ghosts
579 Words
Sunlight fractured through rain-washed skies, turning Cape City’s beaches into shattered citrine. Amelia slumped in the taxi’s backseat, watching palm trees blur into streaks of gold. The storm had scrubbed the world raw, and now every flicker of light felt like a betrayal.
She’d almost drifted off when her iPhone erupted—Lila’s custom ringtone, a clipped rendition of “Here Comes the Bride” remixed with dog barks.
“He’s stalking us.” Lila hissed without preamble. In the background, silverware clinked against what sounded like a small army of champagne flutes. “Ethan just got a second gift—some grotesque Art Deco clock worth more than my student loans. Delivered by a guy with knuckle tattoos.”
Amelia pressed her forehead to the cool window. “Maybe he’s into horology.”
“This isn’t a f*****g Hobby Lobby craft hour! Since when does a real estate warlord send wedding presents to strangers?”
A seagull swooped past the car, its shadow skimming Amelia’s throat like cold fingers. She knew that particular brand of paranoia—the way Alexander’s presence seeped into walls long after he’d left.
“Rip up the checks. Donate the clock to MoMA,” Amelia said. “Or smash it. Very cathartic.”
Lila’s manicured claws probably dented her bridal clutch. “You’re not listening. Ethan’s security team found trackers in the gift boxes. Tiny ones, like those Apple AirTags but creepier.”
Amelia’s lungs constricted. Classic Alex. Always two moves ahead, even in generosity.
“He’s baiting you,” Lila whispered. “Like that time he…”
…filled your dorm room with black roses after you missed his call.
…bought the café where you worked just to fire every barista who flirted with you.
…had your name engraved on a bullet and wore it as a cufflink.
Amelia shut her eyes. “I’ll handle it.”
“By doing what? You’re not that girl anymore—the one who thought swallowing his poison made you immune.”
“No,” Amelia said softly. “Now I know how to brew my own.”
The Uber rolled to a stop outside a towering glass hotel. Through the lobby’s floor-to-ceiling windows, she spotted Ethan’s security detail—men with earpieces and biceps that screamed Blackwater alumni.
Lila exhaled sharply. “Just… stay sharp tonight. Half these guests are Botoxed sharks with prenups thicker than their morals.”
Amelia was halfway through the revolving doors when her phone buzzed again—an unknown Cape City number.
Her thumb hovered. Eight years of therapy whispered ignore it. But her marrow, still imprinted with his Morse code pulse, pressed accept.
“Hello?”
Static. Then breathing—low, deliberate, synced to the rhythm of her own.
Her knees liquefied. She knew that silence. Knew how it felt pressed against her ear at 3 AM, his lips grazing the receiver as he muttered “You’re mine even in your sleep.”
The call died.
A notification popped up: The number had sent a Live Photo.
She clicked it.
The image dissolved into motion—a sliver of Cape City’s skyline through rain-streaked glass. Then the camera panned down, revealing a mahogany desk scattered with familiar relics: Her moth-eaten college sweater. A dried corsage from their first gala. And a knife—her knife, the one she’d plunged into his ribs—now gleaming beside a single black rose.
Text flickered across the screen:
Unknown: Welcome home, little thief.
- Writer
