The scent of vanilla pancakes drifted up the stairs, tugging Sofia from sleep. She blinked at the ceiling, already dreading the day. Not the usual school routine or even Harper's overly cheerful voice—this was heavier. Like something clawing at her chest from the inside.
Downstairs, Harper was humming.
"Morning, sweetheart!" Harper called when Sofia shuffled into the kitchen. "I made banana-chocolate chip pancakes—your favorite."
Sofia blinked. "Thanks."
Harper wore an apron that said Kiss the Cook, her hair tied up in a loose bun. She looked effortlessly at home. As if she belonged here. As if this wasn't Sofia's house first. The anger that used to rise so easily felt muted now—drowned out by something worse: guilt.
"I thought maybe this Saturday, you and your dad could go bowling," Harper said, plating the pancakes with a smile. "Just the two of you."
Jacob looked up from his paper. "That sounds good, what do you think kiddo?"
Sofia nodded automatically. "Yeah, sure."
Harper beamed. "Great! I'll make the booking."
Sofia barely touched her pancakes.
Later that afternoon, as Harper folded laundry in the sun-drenched living room, Sofia's phone buzzed.
Ian: Get me something of hers.
She froze.
Ian: That gray scarf. The one she wore Monday morning. Soft. Vanilla-scented.
No, Sofia typed. This isn't part of the deal.
Ian: There was no deal. You lied. I'm just collecting the interest.
A second message followed: a voice file.
Audio_Confession_1.m4a
She didn't dare play it. Her stomach twisted knowing it was there—her voice, captured. Her crimes, detailed. Her life, ruined if it ever got out.
Ian: You want to be done? Prove it. Start small. One item.
Sofia stared at the laundry basket. The scarf sat folded neatly at the top.
She waited until Harper left the room, then walked to the basket with slow, robotic steps. Her fingers brushed the soft fabric. It smelled faintly of vanilla and something warm, something Harper. Her throat tightened. She grabbed it and stuffed it into her backpack before she could talk herself out of it.
When Harper returned, Sofia was back at the table, eyes glued to her phone.
That evening, while curled up in bed, her phone buzzed again.
Ian: Nice choice. She wore it near me once. I remember the scent.
Sofia's stomach flipped. She turned the phone face down and lay back, staring at the ceiling, willing herself not to cry.
The next morning, Harper stood in the hallway, frowning. "Have either of you seen my gray scarf? The one with the little silver trim?"
Jacob shook his head. "Didn't see it, hon."
"I could've sworn I just washed it yesterday."
"I'll help you look after breakfast," he offered.
Harper smiled. "You're sweet. It'll probably turn up somewhere silly."
Sofia kept her head low. Her spoon scraped the bottom of her cereal bowl as her pulse thundered in her ears.
At school, she was on edge.
Every shadow made her jump. Every whisper felt like it was about her. In math, she froze mid-question. In English, she answered a question meant for someone else. She snapped at her lab partner in chemistry and nearly spilled acid.
"You okay?" her teacher asked after class.
"Fine," she muttered.
At lunch, Naomi gave her a long look. She didn't ask questions—not yet—but her silence said everything.
Sofia barely ate, staring at the untouched pasta on her tray.
That night, Harper stopped by Sofia's room.
"I know it's been a weird week," she said gently, "but if you ever want to talk… I'm here. No pressure."
Sofia blinked. Harper stood at her door like a friend, not a threat.
Sofia only nodded.
Harper smiled sadly and walked away.
And the guilt… it settled deep.
Ian: Ready for the next?
The message came at midnight.
Ian: This one's special. Her earrings. The blue ones. You know which.
No.
Ian: You're in this, Sofia. You chose this. Or do I tell your father who created Clara?
Sofia sat up in bed, trembling. She stared into the dark, heart hammering. Then she opened her drawer.
The scarf was there, folded neatly.
She hated what she'd become.
But she wasn't sure how to stop.