Twisted Fate

2.

Chapter 2: Shadows and Secrets

The rooftop air feels sharper now, slicing through my buzz from the wine and Ethan’s kiss. That photo in his wallet—the newborn with my birthmark—sits heavy in my gut, like a stone I can’t shake loose. Ethan’s staring at the city skyline, his jaw tight, pretending he didn’t just dodge my question. Below us, the party rages on, but up here, it’s just us and this weird, electric tension. I want to ask about the photo again, but something in his eyes—guarded, almost scared—stops me.

“Okay, spill,” I say, crossing my arms. “What’s with the picture? And don’t give me that ‘no big deal’ crap.”

He runs a hand through his dark hair, the scar on his jaw catching the moonlight. “It’s just… old stuff. From my adoption. I don’t even know why I carry it.”

“Bull,” I snap, stepping closer. “That birthmark? It’s the same as mine.” I pull up my sleeve, showing the small, crescent-shaped mark on my wrist. “Explain that, Ethan.”

His eyes widen, flicking to my wrist, then back to my face. “No way,” he mutters, almost to himself. “That’s… impossible.”

“Impossible?” I laugh, but it’s shaky, nervous. “You’re the one with a creepy baby photo that looks like me. Start talking.”

He hesitates, then pulls the photo from his wallet again, holding it like it might burn him. “I found it in my dad’s attic last summer. Tucked in some adoption papers. There was a letter, too, but it was half-torn, just random stuff about a hospital mix-up. I didn’t think much of it until… well, now.”

My heart’s pounding so loud I swear he can hear it. “A hospital mix-up? Like what?”

“I don’t know, Emma,” he says, his voice low, urgent. “Something about St. Mary’s in Boston, twenty years ago. My dad—my adoptive dad—never talked about it. But I’ve been digging, trying to figure out who my real parents were.”

I freeze. St. Mary’s. That’s where I was born, according to the adoption file my mom keeps locked in her office. I haven’t told Ethan that yet, and now I’m not sure I want to. It’s too much, too fast. “So, what, you think we’re… connected or something?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

He looks at me, his green eyes searching mine. “I don’t know. But when I saw you tonight, it felt like… like I already knew you.”

My stomach flips, and not in the good way. It’s the same feeling I had when we kissed—like he’s a puzzle piece I’ve been missing my whole life. But that photo, the birthmark, the hospital… it’s starting to feel less like fate and more like something dark, something wrong.

Before I can say anything, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, expecting Mia’s drunk texts, but the screen shows an unknown number. The message is short, chilling: Stay away from him. You don’t know what you’re getting into.

I gasp, dropping the phone like it’s on fire. It clatters on the rooftop, and Ethan grabs it before I can. “What’s wrong?” he asks, his voice sharp.

“Look,” I say, pointing at the screen. He reads the text, his face hardening.

“Who sent this?” he demands, scrolling through the phone like he’ll find answers.

“No clue,” I say, my voice shaking. “But that woman downstairs, the one watching us? This has to be her.”

Ethan’s eyes narrow. “We need to find her. Now.”

We race back into the frat house, the music hitting us like a wave. The crowd’s thicker now, a mess of sweaty bodies and spilled drinks. I scan the room, my heart racing, looking for that dark coat, those steely eyes. Mia spots us from the corner, her curls bouncing as she pushes through the crowd.

“Em! Where’d you go?” she calls, then stops, seeing my face. “Whoa, you look like you saw a ghost.”

“Worse,” I say, grabbing her arm. “Did you see a woman in a dark coat? Older, maybe fifties, holding a bracelet or something?”

Mia frowns, thinking. “Yeah, maybe. She was by the stairs earlier, staring at you two like a creep. Why?”

“She sent me this.” I show her the text, and her eyes widen.

“Okay, that’s not okay,” she says, her voice dropping. “What’s going on, Emma?”

“I don’t know,” I admit, glancing at Ethan. He’s scanning the crowd, his jaw tight. “But we need to find her.”

“Let’s split up,” Ethan says, his voice all business. “Emma, you and Mia check the stairs. I’ll take the back rooms.”

“No way,” I say, grabbing his arm. “We stick together. This is too weird.”

He looks like he wants to argue, but he nods. “Fine. Let’s move.”

We push through the crowd, my heart hammering. The party feels different now, like the air’s charged with something dangerous. Every face looks suspicious, every shadow too dark. Mia’s muttering about how she should’ve stayed home with her Netflix, but she sticks close, her hand on my shoulder.

“There!” I hiss, spotting a flash of dark fabric by the back door. The woman’s moving fast, slipping outside like she knows we’re onto her. We follow, dodging drunk frat guys and spilled cups, until we’re out in the backyard, where the autumn chill hits hard. The woman’s gone, but a crumpled piece of paper lies on the ground, half-buried in the grass.

Ethan picks it up, unfolding it with shaky hands. It’s a hospital bracelet, faded but legible. The name on it makes my blood run cold: Caldwell, Infant Girl. St. Mary’s Hospital. October 12, 2005.

“That’s… my last name,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “And my birthday.”

Ethan’s face goes pale, his eyes locked on the bracelet. “Mine too,” he says, so quiet I barely hear him. “October 12, 2005. St. Mary’s.”

My knees buckle, and I grab his arm to steady myself. “Ethan, what the hell is going on?”

“I don’t know,” he says, his voice raw. “But we need to figure it out. Fast.”

Mia’s staring at us, her mouth open. “You’re both adopted, born on the same day, in the same hospital? This is some soap opera-level crap, Em.”

“Not helping,” I snap, but my mind’s racing. The bracelet, the text, the photo—it’s all connected, and it’s scaring the hell out of me. I look at Ethan, his green eyes mirroring my fear, and I know he’s thinking the same thing: whatever this is, it’s bigger than us.

“Let’s get out of here,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “We need to talk, somewhere safe.”

Ethan nods, but before we can move, my phone buzzes again. Another text from the unknown number: You’re digging too deep. Stop now, or you’ll both regret it.

I show it to Ethan and Mia, my hands trembling. “Who is this?” I whisper.

Ethan’s grip tightens on the bracelet. “Someone who knows more than we do,” he says, his voice hard. “And they’re scared we’re getting close.”

We head back inside, the party’s noise swallowing us, but I can’t shake the feeling we’re being watched. As we push through the crowd, I catch a glimpse of that dark coat again, disappearing around a corner. My heart lurches, and I tug Ethan’s sleeve. “There! She’s heading upstairs!”

We sprint after her, Mia cursing behind us, up the creaky frat house stairs. The hallway’s dim, lined with closed doors, and the music’s muffled up here, making my pulse sound louder. We reach the end of the hall, where a door’s cracked open, light spilling out. I push it open, my breath hitching, expecting to find the woman.

Instead, the room’s empty—except for a single envelope on the bed, addressed to me in sharp, black ink: Emma Caldwell.

I pick it up, my fingers trembling, and tear it open. Inside is a typed note, short and chilling: You were never meant to meet. Leave him, or you’ll both pay the price.

Ethan reads over my shoulder, his breath warm on my neck. “Emma,” he says, his voice low, urgent. “We need to find out who’s doing this. Tonight.”