Secrets we buried

Chapter 4 -- Suspicion

“The timing is suspicious.”

“We saw the car burn to ashes, Jackson, before we left the scene. Moreover, it’s been three whole months.”

The voice was coming from Jackson’s phone, speaker on, low but reassuring.

“Exactly,” the other voice continued. “What are the odds that a stranger shows up after three whole months? Relax—you’re overthinking this.”

I froze by the doorway. My chest tightened. Three months. A burning car. The words pricked me like needles, dragging me back to the night everything ended—and began.

“What are you doing by the door, child?”

Roseline’s gentle voice snapped me out of it.

I turned sharply. Jackson turned too, his eyes narrowing. I heard the phone click—the call cut short. My heart thudded in my throat.

“I… I think I missed my way,” I stammered, forcing a shaky laugh.

“Oh, poor you,” Roseline chuckled, brushing past the tension as though she hadn’t noticed.

But Jackson had noticed. I saw it in the intensity of his gaze. He was too calm, too quick to mask it.

Roseline’s voice softened, oblivious to the storm brewing inside me.

“The next trial session is in three days. I think we should go, if you’re strong enough?”

Trial. Michael. The thought twisted in my chest.

I did need to face the horror of the last few months at least to get my journal back and prove Michael's innocence.

“Why not?” I said.

But even as the words left my mouth, doubt clawed at me. Was I ready to face everything yet? To face the truth?

I closed my eyes and reminded myself: This is for my baby. For the little life I had already begun to love. The only person who had truly felt mine.

“I’m fine… I’m good for travel… Mom.”

“Mom?”

Roseline’s eyes welled instantly. Tears glistened, her lips trembled, and my stomach churned with guilt. Who was the villain here—Jackson, or me? Was I cruel for letting her believe her daughter had returned?

But then again, she knew I wasn’t Martha. She just didn’t know I was Phina. If she was willing to embrace me anyway, then maybe I wasn’t the only one desperate for a lie to hold onto.

“Great,” Jackson broke in, stretching out lazily before dropping onto his bed with a grin. “Then we’re set to leave tomorrow. I even missed my bed at home.”

“Go pack, Martha,” Roseline said.

Back in my room, I sat on the edge of the bed, heart still racing from the phone call. Who had been on the other end? Anna? Or someone else who knew the truth? Was Jackson already suspecting me?

One mistake, one slip, and my cover would be gone. And if it happened too soon, I couldn’t guarantee I would leave this house alive. Jackson was a menace. He had killed before. He could kill again.

The next morning, we left for Baltimore. The journey stretched longer than I imagined, the road winding like an endless snake. I barely noticed the scenery; my mind was tangled with memories, with fear.

When we finally arrived at Roseline’s house, the place was brimming with people. Neighbors, friends, sympathizers—still coming by, still pouring out love for a grieving mother. The whole town seemed wrapped in warmth and kindness. Everyone was smiling. Everyone was supportive.

Except for the wicked. Except for the ones who had blood on their hands.

“I need a glass of water,” I murmured.

“Okay, dear. Be careful,” Roseline replied.

I slipped into the kitchen. The air was cooler there, quieter. I reached for a jug, ready to pour myself a cup—

Then I heard it.

“Phina…”

The name sliced through me like lightning. My name. Mine.

I froze, my hand hovering mid-air. My pulse thundered. Slowly, stiffly, with the best composure I could gather, I turned.

Anna stood at the counter, eyes cold, almost piercing. Then, like a curtain being drawn, her expression softened into a smile.

“Oh. I thought you were someone else. Hi, I’m Anna—Jackson’s college friend.”

College friend. The words hit me strangely. Not girlfriend. Not co-conspirator. Not murderer. Just… friend.

I forced a polite smile.

“Hello. I’m Martha.”

At that exact moment, Roseline walked in, cradling another jug of coffee. She beamed at the sight of us together.

“I see you’ve exchanged pleasantries already.”

Anna’s smile widened.

“Oh yes. Martha seems… quiet.”

I smiled again, forcing it.

“Indeed.”

Anna tilted her head, studying me in a way that made my skin crawl.

“Maybe we should take a walk sometime.” She patted my arm lightly, then turned and left.

Roseline pressed a cup into my hand.

“Here, my love.” She followed after Anna, humming softly.

Alone again, I stepped back into the courtyard. My eyes scanned quickly. Jackson and Anna were gone.

Good.

I had two goals. First, retrieve my journal at my house. Second, deliver it to the right authorities. Michael couldn’t rot in jail for a crime he didn’t commit. Not while the real murderer—Jackson—walked free.

I crept toward the exit, rehearsing every step, every word I’d need when I got there.

And then I heard it again.

“Phina.”

I froze.

This time, Anna’s voice. Clear, deliberate.

“I called her that but she didn’t flinch. She just kept doing her thing, her posture easy, casual.”

If she truly knew, she would have jerked back and looked at me.

“Hmmm… Maybe I was overthinking. Maybe paranoia was eating me alive,” I heard Jackson’s low whisper.

“Of course, you listen to me more,” Anna’s voice floated back, playful now.

“Yeah,” Jackson’s voice answered, low and rough. I peeked around the corner—just in time to see his hand smack her lightly, fondly, on her bum.

My stomach dropped.

“We’re outside, Jackson,” Anna whispered mischievously.

“I know,” he growled back, voice thick, hoarse. “It’s gonna be quick.”

And then it happened.

Right there, in the courtyard, before my eyes, he pulled her into him. Their mouths crashed together, their bodies desperate, shameless. Her soft moans sliced through me, each one sharper than a blade.

“Ohhh… yesss,” she gasped, her voice breaking as he pounded voraciously into her hips.

I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t believe.

Not a dream. Not a trick of the mind. I was watching it. My best friend—my supposed friend—and my boyfriend. My betrayer. My executioner.

The ground shifted beneath me. My chest locked. A sob tore out of me before I could hold it back.

I choked. I turned. I ran.

I didn’t care if anyone heard my footsteps. I didn’t care if Jackson saw me. I just needed to escape before the pain crushed me whole.

The world blurred as I fled, my heart pounding.

Betrayal wasn’t the worst part.

The worst part was realizing—

I had just seen the killers make love.