Chapter 4: Burn the Dress
543 Words
The sedan's door hung open like a threat, fog curling in lazy fingers around the undercarriage, but no one stepped out. Just the engine's low purr, headlights drilling into my retinas, turning the polaroid in my hand to a ghost print. I backed up slowly, sneakers silent on wet grass, vanilla cones forgotten and dripping final white tears onto the bench. Heart hammered code—run or freeze?—but legs locked, eyes straining for the driver's silhouette.
Nothing. Empty seat, keys dangling in the ignition like bait. A setup? A glitch in the dusk? The purr died abruptly, lights winking out, leaving me in an ink-black park, quiet, broken only by my breath, ragged and loud.
I bolted then—diary clutched to chest, polaroid shoved deep in my pocket, car keys jangling as I sprinted the path. Gravel bit heels, oaks whipping branches like warnings, but the sedan stayed put, door yawning empty when I risked a glance back. Home in ten minutes flat, door slammed and bolted, back pressed to wood as I slid down, knees to chest.
Caleb texted halfway through my shift the next morning: Missed you at lunch. Code's kicking my ass—dinner in? Your fave Thai. Sweet normalcy, emoji heart tagging along. I stared at it 'til the screen dimmed, thumb hovering. Sure. Busy day. Lie two, building like debt.
The dress waited in the closet like a corpse—thrift lace yellowing already, hem brushing the floor in accusation. I'd stuffed it there post-wedding, too broke for dry clean, too sentimental to trash. But now? With the Polaroid's weight in my jeans, it felt like evidence. I yanked it free, fabric whispering secrets, and spread it on the mattress for inspection. Veil pinned carefully, buttons glinting dull.
Something caught the light—a bulge in the hem, seam puckered oddly. Scissors from the junk drawer, snip-snip through thread, and out tumbled a chip. Tiny black squares, blinking red faint like a demon eye. Tracking? Listening? My stomach soured—wedding day, courthouse rush, who'd sewn this? Seamstress at the thrift? Or...
Caleb's key turned in the lock early—Thai bags rustling, his voice calling softly. "Mia? Smells like home." I shoved the dress under the pillows hastily, my palms sweaty, and met him in the kitchen. A smile was pasted on. "Hey. Early bird."
He unpacked containers—pad thai, steamed, curled, spring rolls crisp—his free hand finding my waist easily. "Couldn't wait. You okay? Text vibes were... off." Eyes searched mine, storm clouds gathering concern.
"Fine. Just work drama." We ate on the floor, forks tangling, his knee pressed warm to mine. Sweet again—that easy rhythm, him stealing my basil chicken with a wink, me laughing really hard for a split second. But the chip burned in my pocket, red blink pulsing like a countdown.
Night deepened, Thai boxes stacked guiltily in the trash. Caleb dozed first, book splayed on his chest—some tech thriller I'd bought as a joke. I waited 'til his breaths slowed, then slipped to the bathroom, door latched. Chip under the sink light: Wires thin as whispers, port for data dump. Laptop open on the counter, USB jury-rigged—Lena's "tool" from
- Writer
