Page 23 of Let Me In

EMMY

It’s quieter than usual, which makes it worse.

Because when it’s quiet in this house, it means everyone’s holding their breath. Stepping lightly. Bracing.

My father’s been slamming doors since lunch. Muttering under his breath, then shouting when no one answers fast enough. The TV volume rises with his temper, like he’s trying to drown out his own voice.

Mom tried to keep the peace. She always does.

But I saw her hands trembling when she set her tea down.

And now I’m here, sitting on the edge of my bed, anxiety blooming hard in my chest. My fingers are cold, my stomach twisted in knots, skin prickling like I’m waiting for something to break. Like I already know it will.

Luca rests at my feet. Cleo’s curled up beside me, her little body pressed close like she knows something isn’t right.

I can’t stay here.

Not right now.

Not when everything feels like it might shatter.

So I reach for my phone.

Not to scroll.

Not to run.

Just… to call him.

My thumb hovers over his name for a second. Then I press it.

It rings once.

Twice.

And almost without thinking—like muscle memory—I open the top drawer of my desk.

My fingers brush against the small, matte-black tracker nestled beside an old pen and a coil of spare earbuds.

I hesitate, just for a breath, then slip it into the pocket of my jeans.

No plan. No urgency. Just… something quiet in me deciding it might matter.

And then his voice, low, warm, and solid, wraps around me like safety. The tension in my shoulders drops a fraction, like someone reached through the phone and peeled the weight off my chest.

“Emmy?”

My breath comes out shaky. “Hi.”

“Sweet girl,” he says, softer now. “You alright?”

I nod, even though he can’t see me. “Yeah. Just…”

Just what?

Just overwhelmed. Just afraid. Just needing him.

“Could I go to the field for a bit?” I ask instead. “I thought maybe the dogs could run, and I could… breathe.”

There’s a pause on the line. Not because he’s hesitant.

Because he’s already thinking two steps ahead.

“Are you alone there?” he asks.

“Yeah. They’re all inside.”

“You have your phone charged?”

I glance at the screen. “Eighty-nine percent.”

He hums softly. “Take the path behind the old fence post. Stay where it’s open. Don’t let the dogs wander toward the tree line.”

“Okay.”

Another pause. Then—his voice dips, firmer, but not unkind.

"Stay on the line with me, baby. I want to hear your voice the whole way."

That sparks low in my belly, a steady kind of warmth blooming outward.

A little thrill.

A little ache.

Like warmth in my belly, half comfort, half want. Something I didn't even know I was waiting for.

“Okay,” I whisper.

He exhales, quiet but full of meaning. “Good girl.”

And just like that—I can breathe again.

I stay on the line until we reach the gate.

Luca trots ahead, tail high, his whole body humming with energy. Cleo’s close to my heel, ears flicking, alert and light on her feet.

My boots crunch gently over the packed trail.

There's a subtle weight in my pocket that wasn't there before.

The tracker, small and unassuming, brushes against the fabric with each step.

I don't think about it too hard. Just let it sit there, quiet and tucked away, like maybe some part of me already knew I'd need it.

The sun is higher now, bright and soft through the young leaves overhead.

The wind moves quietly through the trees, brushing against my cheek like a hush.

And still—

It’s the sound of his voice that grounds me.

Good girl.

God.

I don’t know what it is about those two words when they come from him.

But they wrap around me like the warmest hands. Slow, sure, and certain.

Not earned through obedience or performance or perfection—but still real. Still steady. Like he can hold me accountable and still hold me after. Like I don’t have to be perfect to be cared for. Just honest. Just trying.

It doesn’t feel childish, or condescending.

It feels like being seen. Like being trusted with softness, and still held with something steady.

Like he knows I’m scared, and still thinks I’m good.

The phone is still in my hand.

I press it gently to my chest for a moment as I step through the gate and into the field.

The dogs break free at once—Luca galloping straight ahead, Cleo darting toward a cluster of dandelions like she’s on a mission.

The field opens up like a breath of freedom.

It’s all soft golds and spring green now, swaying under a sky so wide it feels like a sigh. The ocean curves just beyond it—quiet today, but endless. Waves brushing the rocky edge of the coastline like they’re trying not to wake anything.

And me?

I just stand there for a second.

Letting the sun touch my face.

Letting his voice echo in my bones.

Letting myself believe it.

Good girl.

And then I say, softly, into the phone, “I’m here now.”

There’s a beat of silence on the line.

Not because he’s gone.

But because he’s there.

I can feel it in the way his voice comes next—low, sure, just for me.

“Okay, baby. Remember our rules.”

I nod, even though he can’t see.

“Stay in the open,” I say. “Don’t go near the trees. Keep my phone on me. No wandering.”

“That’s right,” he murmurs, and then says it again, like he knows it undoes me completely. “Good girl.”

It sinks into me again. Warmer this time.

Deeper.

I think I smile.

And then he adds, just as quiet, just as grounding:

“Now breathe, little one,” he says, and it feels like permission I didn’t know I needed. "Let some of that air out.”

I do.

Right there, in the middle of that wide-open field with the ocean reaching just beyond the hill—I breathe.

Not sharp.

Not shallow.

A real breath.

In and out.

And for the first time since I walked through my front door, it doesn’t feel like something’s crushing my ribs from the inside.

“I’m okay,” I whisper.

“I know you are,” he says. “I’ve got you.”

And somehow, he does.

Even from a distance.

Even in the quiet.

CAL

I see her before she says it.

That small figure stepping into the field, the dogs rushing ahead like the world’s never held danger.

Her hair lifts in the wind, that same soft cardigan tied around her waist. She moves slow. Careful. But she’s here. She came.

And she called me first.

It’s a hell of a thing—being trusted like that. Not begged. Not pleaded with. Just called.

“I’m here now,” she says, voice quiet in my ear.

I don’t respond right away.

Because I need a second.

Just to feel it.

She followed the rules.

And now I get to do what I was made for.

To protect. To watch over. To be the steady hand when hers are trembling.

And God, the way she trusts me—doesn’t flinch, doesn’t doubt—it calms something wild in me, like a storm quieting beneath the surface. Sharpens me. Grounds me. Like I was waiting for this without even knowing.

I lower the scope. Just a little. Adjust my sightline. I’m not far—tucked into a bluff where the field curves toward the water, shadowed by spruce and stone. Not close enough to be seen. But close enough.

“Okay, baby,” I murmur. “Remember our rules.”

She does. Lists them out like a litany, her voice steady even if her hands are probably still shaking.

“Good girl,” I say. And mean it.

The words travel low, settle deep. Like they’ve been waiting in my chest for a moment like this. I feel the pull of it—tight and warm—something equal parts pride and possession. She doesn’t even know what she’s doing to me.

She doesn’t know what it does to me.

That trust. That quiet obedience not out of fear, but out of faith.

“Now breathe, little one. Let some of that air out.”

I hear her exhale.

Soft.

Real.

And something in me eases, just for a second.

“I’m okay,” she whispers.

“I know you are. I’ve got you.”

And I do.

I have eyes on the entire field. The trail. The shoreline. The gravel road that cuts behind the far fence.

There’s nothing yet.

Just sea wind and birdsong and the soft sound of her voice in my ear.

But I don’t relax.

Not fully.

Not with what I’ve seen.

Not with that car still fresh in my memory. No plates. Tinted glass. Rolling too slow through a place it didn’t belong.

I watch her.

Let her walk.

Let her feel free.

And still—I scan the edges of the world like a man waiting for something to crawl out of the dark.

Because if it does?

This time I’ll be ready.

And this time?

She won’t be alone.

She’s walking now. Not far—just a slow meander across the rise of the field, the sea curling behind her like a living thing. Luca bounds ahead, nose to the ground. Cleo chases something invisible through the grass.

And Emmy?

She keeps close to the center. Stays in the open.

Like I asked her to.

Good girl.

I adjust the scope again.

Not because I need to.

Because I can’t not.

My eyes flick to the edge of the trailhead, then to the road that winds just beyond the fence line. It’s visible from here in slivers—through scrub pine and fading winter grass. An old service road, barely used.

And that’s when I see it.

Movement.

A glint of glass where there shouldn’t be any.

I go still.

Scope to eye. Focus narrowing.

And there it is.

The car.

Same one.

Black. Tinted. Crawling slowly behind the treeline like it thinks it can sneak.

No plates.

No hurry.

Like it’s watching.

My fingers curl around the rifle. The one I wasn’t sure I’d ever pull out again. The one I kept locked away in the basement because I thought maybe, just maybe, I was done needing it.

Turns out, I’m not.

Because in this moment?

I could make the shot.

One pull.

Clean.

Done.

But I don’t move.

Because she’s right there.

Too close.

Too exposed.

And it costs me.