Sofia barely slept.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Harper's face—not angry, not suspicious, just kind. Trusting. And it made her sick.
The key. The photos. The demands. The underwear she couldn't bring herself to steal. She'd drawn a line, but Ian would just shove it further.
He always did.
That morning, Harper had left a note on Sofia's door:
Made your favorite for breakfast—banana pancakes. No pressure, but I'd love your company. We miss you down here. Love, H.
Sofia read it three times, her throat tight. She didn't go downstairs.
⸻
At school, Naomi found her by the vending machine, eyes hollow, face pale.
"I'm done," Sofia whispered.
Naomi tensed. "What does that mean?"
"I couldn't do it. What he asked for… I couldn't." Her voice cracked. "But he knows. I think he was watching us the other night. Harper and me."
Naomi swore under her breath. "This has to stop."
"I don't know how. He said he'd escalate if I disappointed him again."
Naomi stared at her. "Then we escalate first."
⸻
That night, Harper knocked gently on Sofia's door.
"I'm heading out to run a quick errand. Need anything?"
Sofia shook her head without looking up from her textbook. Her stomach twisted.
The bag on Harper's arm—the one that used to hold the spare key—was still there. Ian hadn't made his move yet.
But it was only a matter of time.
⸻
When Harper left, Sofia pulled her curtains shut and locked her door. She messaged Ian:
Sofia: You got what you wanted. Don't ask for anything else.
Ian: You're not in a position to make demands.
Sofia: Please. Just stop.
Ian: There's one more thing.
Sofia: No.
Ian: Then I hope you're ready to watch everything burn.
⸻
That same night, Naomi met her behind the gym again, this time with a small black notebook in hand.
"I've been keeping track of everything you told me. Every message. Every threat. He's made mistakes, Sof. If we report him—anonymously, even—it'll count."
Sofia flinched. "And if it doesn't? If it blows back on Harper? On my dad?"
Naomi's voice softened. "Then we make sure it doesn't. We don't go to the school. Or the company. We go to someone who'll actually listen. My cousin's friend works with a campus crisis advocacy group. They've handled things like this before."
Sofia hesitated, trembling. Then nodded.
"I'll try."
⸻
But Ian had other plans.
That night, Sofia received a video.
Harper. In the backyard. Watering the small herb garden near the shed. The camera was shaky, zoomed in, clearly shot from across the fence.
Her breath caught.
Ian: She looked peaceful today.
Ian: I think I'll talk to her soon. Don't worry, I'll be gentle.
Sofia dropped the phone.
He wasn't waiting anymore.
The next morning, Harper was in the kitchen flipping through her emails when something caught her eye.
A message. Subject line: "Re: Story Submission Inquiry."
The name was unfamiliar — Eli C. — but it was polite. Formal. It thanked her for her recent short story published in a local lit mag, said it had moved the sender deeply, and asked whether she accepted freelance editorial work.
Harper smiled, modest but a little pleased. She clicked it open.
Hi Harper,
Your short story, "Soft Light," really struck me. I found it by chance, and I haven't stopped thinking about it since. Your ability to capture quiet grief… it's rare.
I'm working on something of my own. It's early, but I'd love your thoughts — even just on structure. If you're open to that, I can send a sample soon.
Either way, thank you. You've inspired me.
-E.C.
She didn't know it yet, but she'd just opened a conversation with Ian.
⸻
Sofia found out later that afternoon.
She walked into the living room and froze as Harper spoke over the phone with a warm chuckle.
"No, not published, just a little workshop group. But I'd be happy to take a look. I'm flattered, really."
Sofia's heart stuttered.
Harper hung up. "That was a writer who found my story online. Wants a little feedback. Can you believe that?"
Sofia's blood turned to ice. "What was his name?"
"Eli. Or… Elijah, maybe? Something like that. Really sweet."
Sofia nodded, barely hearing the rest. She excused herself, climbed the stairs two at a time, and locked her door. Her fingers trembled as she messaged Ian.
Sofia: That was you, wasn't it?
Ian: She has a lovely voice. So open. So trusting.
Sofia: Leave her alone.
Ian: I told you I wanted to talk to her. I gave you a chance to make it easier. You failed. So now I'm handling it myself.
Sofia gripped her head.
It wasn't just blackmail anymore.
It wasn't just guilt.
Ian was in their lives now—actively, openly, smiling in her face behind a false name—and Harper had no idea she was inviting a predator into her inbox.
⸻
That night, Harper was humming to herself while setting the table. Jacob came up behind her and pressed a kiss to her temple.
"Something good happen?"
Harper grinned. "Kind of. A stranger reached out to say he liked my writing. Wants me to look over a short story. Isn't that sweet?"
Jacob smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "What's his name?"
"Eli something. Very respectful."
"Hmm. That's nice. Just… be careful. Internet strangers are still strangers."
"I know," she said, brushing it off.
Jacob nodded but later made a mental note to ask Sofia about it. Not because he didn't trust her but because he knew how innocent she was. Harper had grown close to her lately, and maybe she'd know more.
He didn't know how much more she knew.
⸻
In her room, Sofia stared at a blank message thread with Naomi. Her thumb hovered over the keyboard.
Finally, she typed:
He contacted her. Directly. She talked to him. She likes him. He's charming her, Naomi. What do I do?
The typing bubble appeared almost immediately.
You tell me everything. Right now. Then we end this. Together.