ECHOES OF SECRETS

UNINVITED TRUTH

Jane had never quite understood Myra.

When she first joined Emporium, her impression had been simple: jaded. That was the only word that fit. Myra’s demeanour had screamed restraint—carefully contained, almost pliant. Strangely enough, that was what Jane had found refreshing.

Even so, she sometimes felt ashamed of the thought. Because Myra, for all her composure, had a way of rubbing her the wrong way—just like now.

“What’s wrong?” Jane had asked earlier.

The question had been unnecessary. It was written all over Myra’s face—especially in the faint flush of her cheeks. Yet Myra had only deflected in her usual way, brushing it off as nothing.

But Jane knew better.

Something was off.

And Myra’s sudden request had confirmed it. Jane’s first instinct had been to refuse, but there had been urgency in Myra’s voice—quiet, strained urgency—that made her reconsider.

Whatever this was, she would see it through.

Evening had settled by the time they reached the compound.

Jane parked her SUV beneath a fig tree, careful not to brush the hedges as Myra had instructed. They did look well-kept, she noted absently.

Myra had already gone in.

Inside, sports commentary filled the living room, blending with the warm aroma drifting from the kitchen. Myra stood near her father, Pat, mid-conversation.

He glanced away from the screen just long enough to acknowledge Jane.

“Jane. Welcome.”

“Hi, Mr. Johnson. Hope I’m not interrupting anything?”

“Good timing.” Pat lowered the volume. “Myra here seems to be in incongruence with my philosophy. Apparently, she thinks the Red Devils are better than the Gunners. What’s your take on that?”

Jane smiled lightly. “As much as you’d want my honest opinion, I think I’ll pass. Right now, the only thing on my mind is whatever delicious thing I’m smelling.”

“I only make the finest,” Aunt Rosa called from the kitchen.

Pat chuckled. Myra only shrugged.

Jane took it as her cue and moved toward the kitchen, boots thudding softly against the floor.

Life with the Johnsons was never dull. Their home ran on contradiction—debate and laughter sharing the same breath. Back in Rutledge, Jane had never seen a family argue football like it was weather.

Sometimes she wondered if that was why Myra chose sports journalism.

Or maybe not.

There was something else there—something tied to that footballer in the autobiography she had once mentioned. Jane didn’t know for sure. And she had learned, the hard way, not to assume too much.

Shaking off the thought, she stepped into the kitchen.

“Well, well,” Jane said, dropping her bag by the island. “If it isn’t the queen of the kitchen herself.”

Rosa looked up from chopping vegetables, eyebrow lifting.

“Call me Rosa,” she said, faintly amused. “I believe we established that last winter. Back from work?”

“Sure.” Jane leaned closer, eyeing carrots and apples laid out on the counter. The scent of roasting food grew stronger. “Mind if I taste-test?”

Rosa laughed. “Go ahead. But don’t make a mess.”

“Me? Never.” Jane popped a slice of apple into her mouth with mock seriousness. “See? Professional.”

“Just like me.”

A voice drifted from the doorway.

“Hey, Sabrina.”

Jane turned, lips curving. Sabrina stood there—short sides, textured crop messy on top, a slight fringe sharpening her cheekbones.

“Did you get tired of behaving?”

Sabrina sauntered in, expression amused. “See what you like, aye?”

Jane’s gaze lingered. “I like it. It’s a bit reckless.”

“Don’t encourage her,” Rosa said sharply without looking up. “And I don’t like it. Did your father see your hair?”

“So he could do what?” Sabrina grabbed a slice of apple, chewing loudly. She pointed vaguely behind her. “It’s not me you should be worried about. It’s those two.”

Jane suppressed a smile as Rosa’s expression tightened. Apparently, Sabrina had already caught wind of something.

To defuse the moment, Jane added lightly, “Martha thanked you for the tapioca.”

Rosa’s irritation softened instantly.

“Oh, I bet she did.” She turned slightly. “What exactly did she say?”

The kitchen filled easily again after that—Rosa cooking, Jane helping, Sabrina drifting in and out with remarks sharp enough to keep things alive.

Soon, dinner was ready: roast vegetables, meat, and apple sauce served warm.

Everyone gathered around the table—plates filled, voices overlapping, the warmth of the room settling into something almost comforting.

For a moment, it felt like nothing could go wrong.

“Are you staying for the weekend?”

Jane shook her head. “I don’t think so. But… Myra and I are going to the Pooles’ this evening.”

The room shifted.

“The Pooles?” Rosa’s hand stilled mid-motion. Slowly, her eyes lifted.

A beat of silence followed.

Jane immediately regretted it.

The air tightened.

Pairs of eyes turned toward Myra.

Her expression changed instantly—eyes widening, breath catching. Her mouth tightened as if trying to hold something back and failing.

Jane’s stomach sank.

She had said too much.

“Just work related,” Myra said. “An interview. I volunteered to anchor it.”

Everyone was listening now.

Jane cut in quickly. “We needed the rating.”

“Is that so?” Rosa set down her fork and wiped her mouth carefully. “Did you plan this before or after the party?”

Jane blinked. Party?

Her mind scrambled. Nothing.

“I—was going to tell you,” Myra said quickly.

Rosa’s gaze cut to her.

“I didn’t want you to get the wrong ideas.”

A pause.

“The Pooles are not people you just visit,” Rosa said quietly. “Who arranged this—and why wasn’t I informed?”

Sabrina snorted.

“Well, at least now we know the Pooles outrank all of us in drama. Didn’t realize they came with this much tension.”

Rosa shot her a warning look.

“Oh, come on, Rosa,” Sabrina added, leaning back. “It’s an interview, not a crime scene. If anything, we should be impressed they didn’t make a bigger deal out of it.”

Rosa pushed back her chair. It lurched back with a dull, swallowed drag, the sound heavy in the silence.

Her hand struck the table—hard enough to rattle cutlery.

“Do not reduce this,” she said sharply. “Mixing work with pleasure, appearing deceitful when people expect transparency—do you understand what that could mean if the Pooles find out?”

Her gaze locked on Myra.

“Alright,” Pat said at first, low, like he was testing the ground. “That's enough.”

Rosa didn't stop.

Pat exhaled through his nose, setting his fork down with more force than necessary. The faint clink against the plate cut through the tension. “She made a mistake,” he added, more firmly now. “No need to turn it into a tribunal.”

“Just like she did with Cherry?”

Silence dropped.

For a split second, Jane didn’t understand what she had heard or what it meant. Something had shifted—and she didn’t understand it yet.

“Rosa,” Pat said, sharper now. “Leave it.”

But it was already too late.

Myra stood so quickly her chair scraped resistingly across the floor.

Then she was gone—up the stairs, footsteps fading fast.

Pat exhaled, frustrated. Rosa only shook her head and sat back down.

“What a child.”

“And you always find a way to trigger her,” Pat muttered.

“It’s not that deep,” Sabrina said quietly, her gaze steady on Rosa. “They’re just going for an interview. Let’s not turn it into something else.”

Jane stood slowly.

“I’ll check on her.”

No one stopped her.

As Jane stepped into the hallway, the warmth from earlier had thinned into something cold and unsettled. The kind that lingered.

She paused at the foot of the stairs, her hand hovering over the railing.

Cherry.

The name echoed in her mind, heavy with something she didn’t yet understand.

And the Pooles.

She had walked into this thinking it was just an interview.

It wasn’t.

Jane exhaled slowly and started up the stairs.

Because whatever truth she had just stumbled into—

it had never been meant for her.

And now that it was out, it wasn’t going back.