Chapter 30: Naked Gossip Across Time Zones
The first thing Calista heard was a bird.
Not a metaphorical bird. Not a dream-bird. An actual, physical, obnoxious bird screaming its tiny lungs out from the branch outside her window. It was 6:47 in the morning, and the bird had apparently decided that this particular Tuesday deserved to be announced like the second coming.
She groaned and rolled over, her silver hair tangling in the sheets.
Her bedroom was a strange collision of worlds. The floating orb bed—a gift from Stacy, because Stacy gave gifts like a woman who had never quite gotten over the novelty of having money—pulsed gently beneath her, its bioluminescent veins glowing soft blue in time with her heartbeat. On the walls, holographic murals shifted like slow-motion dreams: a forest at dusk, a city that never existed, a beach where the waves moved in reverse.
She'd picked those murals herself. They were the only thing in the room that felt like her.
The bird screamed again.
"Fuck off," Calista muttered, and grabbed her phone.
The screen lit up. Three contacts at the top of her favorites: MANDY, BETH, and MARTY (BETH'S BOYFRIEND, DO NOT CALL AFTER 10PM). She tapped the first two, starting a group video call.
It rang twice before Mandy picked up.
Mandy's face appeared on the screen, sideways and groggy. Her shaggy brown hair was a disaster—wild and tangled and sticking up in at least three directions. She was lying in bed, obviously naked, the sheet pulled up to her armpits.
"Calista," she croaked. "It's not even seven."
"Good morning to you too, sunshine."
"What do you want?"
"Where's Beth?"
"Here," said a voice from off-screen.
Mandy's phone shifted. The camera angle adjusted, and suddenly Beth's face appeared next to Mandy's. Beth was also naked—Calista could tell by the bare shoulders and the fact that she was clearly sitting up in bed, cross-legged, with a yoga mat visible in the background.
"Hi," Beth said. "I was meditating."
"You were sleeping."
"Meditating," Beth insisted. "The fact that I was asleep is irrelevant."
"You're naked."
"Yoga is best done without clothes. It improves the connection between body and spirit."
"Uh-huh."
Mandy squinted at the screen. "Why are you calling us at six in the morning? Is something wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong." Calista sat up, letting the sheet pool around her waist. She was naked too—she always slept naked, a habit she'd picked up at one point and never bothered to break. "I just wanted to talk."
"About?"
"About last night."
Mandy's eyes sharpened. She was suddenly much more awake. "What happened last night?"
"Emily."
"The pianist?"
"The pianist."
Mandy shifted. The camera angle changed again, and Calista caught a glimpse of Ben's sleeping form—bare chest, dirty blonde hair, one arm thrown over his face. And on Mandy's other side, a tangle of dark hair that could only belong to Jess.
"She's in your bed?"
"Don't change the subject," Mandy said. "What happened?"
"Everything."
"Define everything."
Calista grinned.
So she told them.
She told them about the piano—about the way Emily's hands moved over the keys, about the way the music filled the house like water, about the way Katrina had started crying and couldn't stop. She told them about the look on Emily's face when she played Chopin, about the way she'd said Mark loved Chopin and the way those three words had carried an ocean of grief.
She told them about the kitchen.
She told them about the shower.
She told them about last night.
"Wait," Mandy said, her eyes wide. "Wait, wait, wait. You're telling me you all had sex? Together?"
"Yes."
"Together together?"
"Is there another kind?"
"With Mom and Dad?"
"And Emily and Katrina."
Mandy's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"Holy shit."
"It was shapeless," Calista said. "No boundaries. Just bodies and breath and the sound of someone trying not to scream at the ceiling. Emily was insatiable. I have never seen anything like it."
Beth's face was a study in conflicted emotion—part scandalized, part fascinated, part something that looked almost like pride.
"That's our mother," she said, her voice strangled.
"Yes."
"You're telling me our mother—"
"Fucked the pianist."
"Calista!"
"Multiple times."
Beth covered her face with her hands. The phone shifted again, and Calista got a better view of the room—the yoga mat, the diffuser puffing lavender mist into the air, the books stacked on the nightstand. The Art of War, a well-worn copy of The Phantom Tollbooth, and something with a half-naked man on the cover that might have been a romance novel.
"Beth, are you crying?"
"I'm laughing," Beth said, her voice muffled. "I'm laughing because I don't know how else to process this information."
"She's processing," Mandy said.
"I'm processing."
"Process faster. I want details."
Calista obliged.
She told them about the way Emily had looked at Mike—frank, wanting, unashamed. She told them about the way Casey had guided her, gentle and confident, the way you'd guide someone through a dark room full of sharp furniture. She told them about the shower: the steam, the bodies, the way Mike's hands had moved over Emily's skin while Casey whispered something in her ear that made her laugh.
She told them about the bed.
"Okay," Mandy interrupted. "Okay, I need you to be more specific. What exactly did Dad do?"
"Why are you so interested?"
"Because I'm me."
Calista laughed.
"Fine. He fucked her. With his cock. In her cunt. Is that specific enough?"
Beth made a sound like a wounded animal.
Mandy leaned forward, the sheet slipping down her chest. "And?"
"And she loved it. She came so hard she screamed. Then Katrina showed up, and Emily ate her out while I fingered Mom, and then Dad fucked Mom while Emily watched, and then we all just sort of collapsed into a pile."
The room was quiet for a moment.
Then Mandy said, "That's the hottest thing I've ever heard."
Beth threw a pillow at the phone.
"I understand," she said, "that this is a sex-positive household. I understand that we were raised in an environment where bodies and pleasure and desire were all treated as natural and good. I understand that Mom and Dad have been in an open relationship since before I was born."
"Not exactly open," Calista corrected. "More like... flexible."
"Flexible. Fine. I understand all of that. But I did not need to know that our father is apparently a sex god."
"He's not a sex god," Calista said. "He's just... very generous. And patient. And he has a surprisingly good rhythm for a man who trips over his own feet walking to the mailbox."
Mandy snorted.
"Ben's the same way," she said. "The rhythm thing. He can't dance to save his life, but in bed—"
"We get it," Beth said. "You're having lots of sex with your hot boyfriend and your hot girlfriend."
"The hottest."
"Jess is sleeping right there."
"She's used to it."
As if on cue, Jess stirred. The camera caught a glimpse of her—dark hair spilling across the pillow, olive skin, lips curved into an unconscious smile. She murmured something and rolled over, pressing her face into Mandy's shoulder.
"Cutest thing I've ever seen," Calista said.
"She is," Mandy agreed. "But back to you. Emily. The pianist. Is she pretty?"
"She's gorgeous. Dark hair, kind eyes, a smile that makes you want to confess things."
"Nice body?"
"Young. Or young-ish. Thirty-three. Good skin. Nice tits."
Beth groaned. "Calista."
"What? They were nice! Full. Natural. Her nipples were this perfect dusty pink, and when Dad sucked on them, she—"
"Stop!"
"You asked."
"I didn't ask about the nipples!"
"You asked for details."
"Not nipple details!"
"You're a photographer, Beth. Nipples are part of the human experience."
"I'm going to hang up."
"You're not."
"I'm going to pretend I'm hanging up."
The call didn't disconnect. Beth stayed on the screen, her flushed face and narrowed eyes visible above her fingers.
"I love you," Calista said.
"I hate you."
"You love me."
"I love you and I hate you. It's complicated."
Mandy laughed, the sound warm and rich. "Okay, but seriously. What's the deal with Emily? Is she staying? Is she a new... member of the family?"
"Not exactly." Calista's voice sobered. "She's here to see Mark."
The laughter died.
Mandy's expression shifted—something softer, something sadder. "The brother."
"Yeah."
"The one who's in prison."
"The one who's been in prison since he saved you and Felicity from Shaw. The one who sacrificed everything to protect her."
Jess stirred again, lifting her head. Her eyes were bleary, but her focus sharpened when she saw the phone.
"What's going on?" she asked.
"Calista's telling us about the orgy," Mandy said.
"Again?"
"Not the orgy. The pianist. Emily."
"Oh." Jess sat up, pulling the sheet up to her collarbone. "The one who's here to see her brother."
"Her brother who worked for Evelyn Shaw."
"Her brother who was the Green Knight."
"Her brother who's been doing time in the Illinois State Penitiary because he wanted to atone for what he did."
Calista nodded. "That's the one."
"And Katrina's in love with him."
"Very much so."
Jess absorbed this. "And Emily's here to visit him."
"Tomorrow. Today. Whenever Casey finishes rounding everyone up."
The call fell quiet.
Somewhere in the background of Mandy's room, Ben was snoring—a heavy, rhythmic sound that was almost comforting. In Beth's room, the bird outside was still screaming. In Calista's room, the holographic mural had shifted to a night scene, stars wheeling slowly across the wall.
"I want to be there," Mandy said finally.
"I know."
"I want to see him. The man my best friend fell in love with."
"Felicity?"
"No. Katrina. She's not my best friend, but she's close enough. She's family. And so is Mark, in a weird way. He saved me and Felicity."
"He did."
"When I was trapped in Shaw's hotel room, he was the one who led the charge to get us out. He was the one who turned himself in. He could have run. He could have disappeared. Instead, he chose to pay for what he did."
Calista nodded. She was there at the time.
"That's the kind of man he is," she said. "It's why Katrina loves him."
"It's why I want to meet him."
"Then come."
Mandy blinked. "What?"
"Come to Chicago. Visit. See for yourself."
"I can't just—I have work—and Ben's in school—and Jess—"
"I'm sure they'd understand."
"I'm sure they would, but I can't just leave."
"You could."
"Calista—"
"Mandy." Calista's voice was soft. "You do things for family. You always have. Remember when you helped me with that stalker last year? Remember when you flew back for Mom's birthday? Remember the time you drove twelve hours to bring me soup when I had that horrible cold?"
"I remember."
"Then you remember that you're the person who shows up. You're the one who's always there. And right now, there's a woman in my house who's about to see her brother for the first time in twelve years. She's scared. She's hopeful. She's everything—"
"—and you think she needs me?"
"I think I need you. I think this family needs you. You're the one who holds us together. You always have been."
Mandy was quiet. She always thought it was Casey that held them together. Or Beth.
Jess reached over and squeezed her hand.
"Go," Jess said. "I'll hold down the fort here."
"You sure?"
"I'm sure. Ben's got his engineering project, I've got a couple of cases to wrap up. We'll be fine."
Mandy looked at her—really looked at her—and something passed between them. Something intimate and understanding and profound.
"Okay," she said finally. "Okay, I'll come."
Calista smiled.
Then Beth said, "I'm coming too."
"You don't have to—"
"Shut up. I haven't seen Mom in weeks. And I want to meet Emily. She sounds fascinating."
"She is."
"And I want to see Katrina. And Rembrandt. And VanGogh. And—"
"Okay, okay. You're both coming."
Beth nodded. "Damn right."
They arranged details—flights, timing, who would pick up whom from the airport. Jess promised to call Mandy's clients and reschedule. Beth started planning the photographs she'd take. Calista just lay there and listened to her sisters talk, feeling a warmth spread through her chest that had nothing to do with the bioluminescent bed.
Then Casey walked in.
She was naked.
She had clearly just woken up—her dark-and-silver hair was a mess, and her eyes were still half-closed. She was carrying two mugs of coffee, one of which she set on Calista's nightstand.
"Morning," she said. "Who are you talking to?"
Calista held up the phone.
Casey looked at the screen.
On the screen, three women—Mandy, Beth, and Jess—looked back at her.
"Girls," Casey said. "What's going on?"
Mandy's eyes went wide. "Is that—"
"Mom?" Beth whispered.
"Hi, sweetie."
"Mom, you're naked."
"I'm aware."
"You're naked on a video call."
"It's my house. I can be naked if I want."
"You're naked on a video call with your daughters."
Casey smirked. She took a sip of her coffee, completely unbothered.
"Morning, girls. Yes, I fucked the pianist. Get over it—we've got a prison to get to."
The screen erupted.
"Mom!"
"Casey!"
"Oh my God!"
"She said it!" Mandy was laughing so hard she could barely breathe. "She just—she just came out and said it!"
"I didn't come out," Casey said. "I walked in."
"Mom, that's not—"
"Calista, what did you tell them?"
"Everything."
"Everything everything?"
"All of it."
Casey sighed. She didn't look angry—more resigned, like a woman who had long since accepted that her life was a series of increasingly absurd events.
"Girls," she said, looking at the screen. "This isn't a good use of your time. You should be asking why instead of what."
"Why what?" Beth asked.
"Why did I have sex with Emily? Why is she here? Why is this important? Those are the interesting questions."
There was a beat of silence.
Then Mandy said, "Okay. Why?"
Casey smiled.
"Because every once in a while, the universe hands you a moment," she said. "And you either step into it, or you let it pass. Emily is here because her brother once made a choice—a terrible choice, a violent choice—but a choice he made out of love. The least we can do is give her an hour in a room where nobody's judging anybody, where the only thing that matters is being held."
She paused.
"Also, your father is really good at it."
"Mom!"
"What? He is."
Beth had her face buried in her hands again. Mandy and Jess were laughing too hard to speak.
Calista reached up and took her mother's hand.
"That was beautiful," she said.
"It was true."
"And the part about Dad being good?"
"Also true."
"You're shameless."
"I'm forty-eight. I've earned it."
Casey bent down and kissed Calista's forehead.
"Now. Get dressed. Emily's already up. She's in the kitchen with your father, drinking coffee and trying not to look at the clock. We need to be at the prison by ten."
Calista nodded.
Then she looked at the phone—at her sisters, still laughing, still processing, still there—and said, "See you soon."
"Soon," Mandy agreed.
"Save me some of that pianist energy," Beth said.
"I make no promises."
The call ended.
Calista set the phone down and swung her legs over the side of the bed.
Casey was already at the door, her naked body silhouetted against the hallway light. She looked back over her shoulder.
"You know," she said, "you and your sisters are a lot alike."
"How so?"
"You all talk big. But when it comes down to it, you'd do anything for family."
Calista thought about Emily. About Katrina. About Mark, waiting in his cell, unaware that the woman he loved was carrying a piece of his sister's music in her heart.
"You're right," she said.
"I know." Casey smiled. "Now hurry up. We've got a prison to get to."
She left.
Calista stood up, stretched, and walked to her closet.
For the first time in a long time, she knew exactly what she was going to wear.
She chose black jeans, the ones that hugged her hips just right. A cream-colored blouse, silk, with sleeves that billowed when she moved. Simple silver hoops, her mother's—the only jewelry Casey had kept from her own mother.
No makeup. She didn't need it. Calista's skin was already luminous, a gift from the elf blood she'd inherited. She brushed her hair until it shone like moonlight, then pulled it back into a low ponytail that showed off the delicate points of her ears.
She looked at herself in the mirror.
Golden eyes stared back at her, steady and sure.
"Okay," she said to her reflection. "Let's go see a man about a miracle."
---
Downstairs, the house had transformed.
Mike stood in the kitchen, dressed in what he called his "serious pants"—dark slacks, a button-down shirt the color of oatmeal, and shoes that actually matched. He was drinking coffee from a mug that said WORLD'S OKAYEST DAD, and he looked like a man who had spent the morning mentally preparing for something he couldn't quite name.
Emily sat at the table, her hands wrapped around her own mug. She wore a simple blue dress, modest and clean, with a cardigan she kept pulling tighter around her shoulders. Her dark hair was pulled back, exposing the delicate lines of her face—the worry there, the hope, the fear that came from not knowing what to expect.
Katrina stood by the window, her back to the room, watching the street. She wore a green sundress that made her grey eyes look almost silver in the morning light. Her long black hair hung loose, and her hands were clasped behind her back in a way that made Calista think of dancers waiting for their cue.
Casey was in the living room, fully dressed for the first time in days—a flowing red blouse, dark pants, boots that clicked when she walked. She was on the phone, her voice low and urgent.
"Yes. Ten o'clock. I've already confirmed."
A pause.
"No, he doesn't know. That's the point."
Another pause.
"Yes. I'll call you when we're on the way back. Have everything ready."
She hung up and turned. Rembrandt was draped across the back of the couch like a furry throw pillow. VanGogh sat on the windowsill, his black tail flicking with predatory patience.
"Everyone ready?" Casey asked.
"I think so," Mike said.
"Katrina?"
Katrina turned from the window. Her face was calm, but her hands were clenched tight enough that her knuckles had gone pale.
"I'm ready."
"Emily?"
Emily set down her mug. She stood slowly, smoothing her dress with palms that trembled just slightly. She looked around the kitchen—at the fridge covered in old photos and magnets, at the cat clock on the wall with its swinging tail, at the coffee cake cooling on the counter that Casey had made at some point before anyone else was awake.
"Thank you," she said. "For all of this. For letting me stay. For—"
"Don't," Casey interrupted. "You'll make me cry, and I hate crying before noon."
Emily laughed, a small, shaky thing.
Calista came down the last few stairs and joined them in the kitchen. She'd grabbed a light jacket, something to throw over her shoulders if the morning chill lingered. The room smelled like coffee and sugar and the faint floral note of whatever soap Casey used.
"How are you feeling?" Calista asked Emily.
"Terrified."
"That's fair."
"I keep thinking about what I'll say. I've had twelve years to think about it, and I still don't know."
"You don't have to know," Calista said. "You just have to show up."
Emily looked at her. Something in her face softened.
"You're wise for twenty."
"I'm an old soul."
"Must run in the family."
Calista smiled. Then she turned to the window and her smile froze.
"Uh. Mom?"
"What?"
"Someone's pulling up."
Everyone moved at once.
Casey was the first to the window, Katrina beside her. Mike abandoned his coffee. Emily, uncertain, hovered behind them. Through the glass, Calista saw a familiar shape—boxy, ancient-looking, the kind of van that belonged in a vintage car show.
"CHEVY!" Calista shouted.
"You've got to be kidding me," Mike whispered.
The van pulled into the driveway. It creaked when it stopped, its engine ticking and rumbling like a beast that had been woken from a long nap. The driver's side door swung open with a screech.
Mandy Williamson hopped out.
She had the same shaggy brown hair Calista remembered, the same perpetual smirk, the same awkward grace that made her look perpetually like she was about to trip over something. She was wearing jeans and a t-shirt that said I PUT THE "BITCH" IN OBITUARY. Her boots hit the pavement with a thud.
Beth climbed out of the passenger side.
She was shorter than Mandy, blonde, with a camera hanging from her neck by a battered strap. She wore loose linen pants and a tank top, and her eyes were already scanning everything—the house, the yard, the sky.
"WE SPLURGED ON A PORTAL!" Mandy shouted.
She was grinning like a maniac.
"FIGURED YOU'D NEED THE VAN FOR A PARTY THIS BIG!"
Mike was out the door before anyone could stop him.
"You drove from Miami?"
"Rainbor's portal to Chicago. And then we drove the van from old Dark Market."
"Those portals still work?"
"Lots of stuff there still works," Beth said, climbing down more carefully. "Where's Mom?"
"In here," Casey called, pushing open the screen door.
Mandy sprinted across the yard—actual sprinting, her boots slamming against the grass. She threw her arms around Casey and lifted her mother clean off the ground.
"Put me down. Put me down!"
"You're light as a feather, old woman."
"I will disown you."
"You'd miss me too much."
Mandy set her down. Beth caught up more slowly and hugged Casey without lifting her, her face buried in her mother's shoulder for a long moment.
"I missed you," Beth said.
"I missed you too, Lizzy."
"Lizzy" was a name only Casey used. Calista watched her sister's shoulders relax at the sound of it.
Introductions happened in the living room.
Emily sat on the edge of the couch, hands clasped in her lap. Mandy settled cross-legged on the floor like she was about to hear a ghost story, and Beth perched on the arm of the chair, camera already raised.
"Emily, this is Mandy," Calista said. "She's the oldest of us girls. Our brother Rick is the oldest. Mandy's the tech one. The one who never met a situation she couldn't approach sideways."
"Hi," Mandy said. "I've heard a lot about you."
"Only good things, I hope."
"Mostly weird things. But that's this family."
Beth leaned forward and extended a hand. "I'm Beth. Beth Williamson. You might know me as Liz Kapowski—that's my—"
"Artist name," Emily finished. "Yes. I've seen your work. The one with the dancers. The lighting was—it was like the light itself was moving."
Beth's face lit up.
"That was Calista's fault. She wouldn't stop moving."
"I refuse to be still," Calista said.
"You refuse to be quiet."
"Also true."
Emily looked at the two women—at their easy banter, at the way they traded barbs like they were passing bread. She looked at Calista, at the sisters she had apparently known about but never met. She looked at Casey and Mike, standing in the doorway, watching their children with the kind of quiet, unguarded fondness that only came from decades of love.
"I understand now," Emily said.
"Understand what?" Mandy asked.
"Why my brother didn't come home. Not to me, at least. He was protecting something."
Mandy's smirk faded. Her face softened.
"He was," she said. "He was protecting a lot of people. Including me, once."
"Once?"
"He—well, it's a long story. The short version is that he turned himself in afterwards. He could have run. He could have disappeared and lived a comfortable life somewhere, with a different name and a different face. But he didn't."
"Why?"
"Because he's the kind of man who chooses the hard thing," Calista said. "Always. Even when it costs him everything."
Emily nodded. Her eyes were wet, but she didn't cry. She had practiced this—Calista could tell. She had practiced being strong, being calm, being ready for whatever was on the other side of that door.
"Okay," Emily said. "Let's go."
---
The van was a miracle.
Not because it was comfortable—it wasn't. The seats were cracked, the engine was loud, and the radio only worked if you held the antenna at a specific angle. The whole thing smelled like old leather and gasoline and the faint ghost of a thousand road trips.
Mandy drove. She claimed she had the best navigation skills, which was probably true, even if her method involved yelling at the GPS like it was a reluctant child. Beth sat beside her in the passenger seat, camera on her lap, lens cap off.
In the back, Casey and Mike took the middle row. Emily sat between them, her hands still clasped, her eyes fixed on the road ahead. Calista and Katrina shared the very back, which had a bench seat that folded down into a questionable configuration that was technically for cargo.
The engine rumbled to life.
Van Gogh, who had somehow slipped into the van unnoticed, meowed from the cargo area. No one had the heart to make him leave.
"I'm sorry about the seats," Mike said. "They're the originals."
"They're fine," Emily assured him. Though she was clearly uncomfortable, she did her best to keep it from showing. Calista watched the way her fingers tightened around the edge of the cushion, the way she kept shifting her weight to find a less painful position.
Calista had to text her sisters the moment she got her phone out. She and Mandy and Beth exchanged a flurry of quick messages—mostly Mandy complaining about the GPS and Beth documenting the trip with a barrage of photos.
"Can you not?" Casey said, seeing the phone screen over Mike's shoulder.
"You're the one who raised a house full of nosy women," Mandy said, not missing a beat. "This is on you."
"So did you just portal here?" Emily asked.
"Not exactly," Beth said, turning in her seat. "Our friend Rainbor, he's an orc, runs a big candy company, and he has his fingers in a lot of pies. He has a portal hub in Chicago—it's expensive, but he owes us a favor."
"Several favors," Mandy said.
"Several favors," Beth agreed. "So we used one."
"We left Miami at seven this morning. It was still dark. Ben gave me a kiss and told me to be safe, and Jess said she'd hold down the fort. And then we were standing in Rainbor's hub in Chicago at the site of the old Dark Market. And Jan was there--"
"Wait, Jan?"
"Jan has been part of our family for years," Calista said. "She's the aunt of Marty. Marty is Beth's boyfriend."
"He's not my boyfriend," Beth said. "He's—"
"The love of her life," Mandy said.
"I was going to say complicated."
"Which is just a fancy word for love."
Emily laughed. The sound was raw, but genuine.
It took an hour to reach the prison.
The landscape shifted as they drove—from the neat green lawns of the suburb to the wide commercial stretches of the highway, then to the flat, industrial sprawl at the edge of the city. The sky was pale and wide, and the road stretched ahead like something inevitable.
Mandy took the last turn too fast. The van swayed. Katrina grabbed the door handle.
"Sorry!" Mandy called.
"Slow down!" Casey barked.
"I'm driving!"
"You're driving like a maniac!"
"I'm driving with alacrity!"
"That's not a word!"
"It's a word if I say it's a word!"
The prison loomed ahead.
It was a concrete building, low and sprawling, with fences and cameras and the kind of architecture that made you feel watched even from a distance. The parking lot was half-empty. A man in a uniform stood by the gate, arms folded, watching as the battered van pulled in.
The engine cut off.
Silence crashed over them.
Emily reached out and took Katrina's hand. Neither woman spoke. They just sat there, still and quiet, looking at the building that held the person they both loved.
"Ten o'clock," Casey said. "We're right on time."
They walked to the gate together.
The guard checked their IDs, looked at a clipboard, and led them through a series of heavy doors. The air inside was cool and smelled faintly of ammonia and something metallic. The walls were beige, the floors were polished, and the sounds were all muffled—people talking somewhere, doors closing somewhere, the distant beep of some machine.
They signed in. They surrendered their phones. They waited in a room with plastic chairs and a dusty vending machine that only took exact change.
"He doesn't know I'm coming," Emily said quietly.
"I know," Casey said.
"He thinks it's just Katrina."
"I know."
"What if he doesn't want to see me?"
The room was quiet.
Then Mike said, quietly, "He wants to see you."
Emily turned to him. His grey hair was messy, his shirt was wrinkled, and his face was kind.
"How do you know?"
"Because I know what it feels like to love someone and not be able to reach them. And I know—I know—that when you finally get the chance to see them again, you take it. No matter what."
Emily nodded.
A door opened. Another guard appeared.
"Visiting room is ready," she said. “Harlow. Cavanaugh-Jackson. This way."
Katrina and Emily stood.
Casey hugged Emily first—tight, fierce, a whisper in her ear. Then Mike. Then Calista, who said nothing but squeezed her hand so hard it almost hurt.
Mandy and Beth stayed back.
"Go," Mandy said. "We'll be here."
Emily walked toward the door.
Katrina walked beside her.
The door closed behind them.
And then there was silence, and waiting, and the long, slow countdown to the moment everything would change.
They sat in the visiting room for seven minutes before the door on the other side opened.
The room was small—four tables bolted to the floor, vending machines humming, fluorescent lights casting everything in an unflattering pallor. The walls were bare except for a single clock, and the clock ticked so slowly it seemed to be mocking them. Katrina sat with her hands folded on the table, her posture perfect from years of dance training.
Emily sat across from her, her knees bouncing under the table in a nervous rhythm she couldn't control. Beside Emily, Mike and Casey had taken the remaining chairs.
The door opened.
Mark Cavanaugh walked in.
He was thinner than Emily remembered—his shoulders still broad, but the grey jumpsuit hung loose on him, as though there wasn't quite enough of him left to fill it. His dark hair had grown out, curling slightly around his temples, with silver streaks that hadn't been there before. His face was older, weathered, etched with lines that told stories she would never fully know.
But his eyes were the same.
Kind, warm, the kind that seemed to look right through you and find something worth saving. Even in this place, even in that uniform, he was still her brother.
Then he saw Emily.
He stopped.
His face didn't crumple. He didn't cry, didn't shout, didn't run across the room. He just stood there, one hand still on the door frame, looking at her like a man who had spent twelve years convincing himself that this moment would never come.
"Emily," he said.
His voice was barely a whisper.
"Hi, Mark."
Neither of them moved.
Then Mark crossed the room in three long strides and pulled her into his arms. Emily buried her face in his shoulder. He held her so tight and with such desperation that her feet nearly lifted off the ground. And there, in the middle of the visiting room, with a clock ticking on the wall and a guard watching from the corner, Mark Cavanaugh cried for the first time in twelve years.
Katrina watched. Her eyes were wet. She didn't move, didn't speak, just held space for them.
Mike put a hand on Casey's back. Casey leaned into him, just slightly.
The guard looked away.
They stayed like that for a long time.