Chapter 1: Chapter 1
The tennis ball cracked against the racket strings with a sound that split the evening air, a sharp, satisfying report that always cleared Cadence’s head. For two hours, under the relentless floodlights of the high school courts, there was only the rhythm of her footwork, the burn in her shoulders, and the next shot. Now, driving home through the maze of identical, quiet subdivisions, the thrum of the car engine was a dull echo of that earlier intensity.
Her dad’s sedan smelled faintly of coffee and old leather. The radio was off. The silence was comfortable.
“Pasta okay for dinner?” Her father glanced away from the road. “Your mom left sauce simmering.”
“Perfect.” Cadence watched the streetlights smear past her window, each one a pulse in the gathering dark. She flexed her right hand, the skin of her palm tender from the grip. “Coach worked us on backhand slices. My forearm’s toast.”
He nodded, a man familiar with the language of minor aches and post-practice exhaustion. “Ice it when we get in.”
Their house was at the end of a cul-de-sac, a two-story with a porch light that always seemed too dim. As they turned in, the headlights swept across the driveway, illuminating not just the familiar empty concrete, but a parked car Cadence didn’t recognize. A dark SUV, idling, its exhaust making ghostly shapes in the cool air.
“Company?” her dad murmured, more to himself.
He pulled in behind it. Cadence unbuckled, gathering her duffel bag and racket from the backseat. The SUV’s windows were tinted, but as she stepped out, she could make out shapes inside. Several of them. The driver’s window was down a couple of inches, leaking a thread of bass-heavy music into the still night.
A figure detached itself from the passenger side and stood in the wash of the porch light. A girl, maybe Cadence’s age, with a sharp, restless posture. She wore a cropped hoodie and jeans ripped at the knees. Her gaze locked onto Cadence, not curious, but appraising.
Cadence shot a confused look at her dad, who was collecting his briefcase from the trunk. He shrugged, offering a neutral smile. “Friends of Hannah’s, maybe?”
But Hannah, Cadence’s older sister, was at a weekend film seminar at the university. She wasn’t due back until Sunday.
The strange girl took a few steps forward, her boots crunching on the gravel edging the driveway. “Hey. You Cadence?”
The question felt less like a greeting and more like a verification of facts. Cadence adjusted the strap of her duffel bag on her shoulder. “Yeah. Who are you?”
“Ryli.” The name was offered without context, as if it should explain everything. Ryli’s eyes flicked past Cadence toward the front door. “Is Hannah here?”
“No. She’s away.”
Ryli’s expression tightened, a flicker of annoyance. She half-turned, raising a hand toward the idling SUV. A quick, sharp gesture. The music inside cut off. A moment later, the driver’s door opened, and a guy with close-cropped hair and a leather jacket got out. He leaned against the door, arms crossed. The back doors opened too, releasing two more girls. One had vibrant magenta hair tied in a messy bun; the other, a taller girl with severe bangs, hung back, her eyes scanning the upper windows of the house.
Cadence felt a cold prickle on the back of her neck. This wasn’t a social call. “What’s this about?” Her voice came out steadier than she felt.
“She’s supposed to be here,” Ryli said, as if Cadence were withholding something. “She told me to come by. Around eight.”
“Well, she’s not.” Cadence took a step toward the porch, instinct pulling her toward the lighted door. Her dad was already there, key in the lock, but he’d paused, watching the exchange. “You’ve got the wrong night, or the wrong info.”
The guy by the car—Dylan, maybe—pushed off the door and took a few steps closer. He didn’t smile. “She’s not answering her phone.”
“I don’t know what to tell you.” The politeness was draining from Cadence’s tone, replaced by a defensive edge. “She’s not here. You should go.”
Ryli didn’t move. Her gaze swept over Cadence’s tennis skirt, her sweatshirt, the duffel bag. The assessment was dismissive. “You tell her Ryli came by. You tell her she owes me a conversation.” She took a final step forward, closing the distance enough that Cadence could smell cigarettes and peppermint gum. “And she can’t hide behind her little sister forever.”
The porch light flickered, or maybe it was just Cadence’s vision swimming with a sudden rush of adrenaline. This was about something real, something with weight. Not a borrowed textbook or a missed coffee date.
“Hey.” Cadence’s father’s voice cut through the tension, calm but firm. He stood on the top step, the front door open now, casting a warm rectangle of light onto the porch. “Everything alright out here?”
Ryli finally broke her stare from Cadence. She looked at the man in the doorway, and her aggressive posture softened, just a fraction, into something more performatively casual. “Just looking for Hannah, sir. We must have our wires crossed.”
She didn’t wait for a response. A quick jerk of her chin toward her friends, and they began moving back to the SUV. The magenta-haired one—Audrey—gave Cadence a long, unreadable look before sliding inside. The one with the bangs, Kamora, never stopped surveying the house.
Dylan was the last. He paused by the passenger door, his eyes meeting Cadence’s. There was no apology in them, just a flat, warning sort of clarity. “Tell her,” he said, his voice low. “It’s important.”
Then the doors thumped shut. The engine growled to life. The SUV backed out of the driveway with a spray of gravel, its red taillights shrinking and then vanishing around the curve of the cul-de-sac.
The suburban quiet rushed back in, profound and suddenly sinister. Crickets chirped. A dog barked two streets over.
“You have no idea who that was?” Her dad asked, still on the porch step.
Cadence shook her head, her fingers tight around the strap of her bag. The solid feel of her tennis racket in her other hand felt absurd now, useless. “No. Not a clue.”
But the name Ryli buzzed in her skull like a trapped insect. The absolute, knowing confusion of being targeted for a reason you can’t fathom—it left a hollow, cold space in her gut. Hannah owed a conversation. About what?
She walked inside, the familiar scent of marinara sauce now somehow incongruous. She dropped her bag by the stairs, her routine shattered. Upstairs, in the silent sanctuary of her sister’s empty room, a phone was presumably ringing unanswered. A problem was circling, and it had just landed, unmistakably and with sharp intent, on their doorstep. Cadence stood in the hallway, listening to her dad lock the deadbolt with a definitive thunk, a sound that suddenly felt less like security and more like a prelude.