Red Thorns (Thorns Duet 1)

“Yes?”

“I have a friend who thinks she’s being followed by a car, should she call the police?”

He pauses, no sound coming for several seconds until I think he’s no longer there, but then he asks in his serious tone, “Did she see the face of who’s following her?”

“No.”

“A license plate?”

“No…” I was too nervous to focus on that.

“Anything specific?”

“It was just a black van. It’s the second or third time she’s seen it around.”

“Calling the police is pointless unless she has something to back her claim. A license plate number is the very least she has to provide.”

“I see.”

“Is your friend scared? Feeling threatened?”

“A little.” A lot.

“Does she suspect anyone?”

“It could be people from her parents’ past.”

“Maybe you should distance yourself from her then.”

“I…will.” I scoff internally at the thought of distancing myself from myself. I’d love that option more than anything right now.

After I finish the call with Kai, I step out of my car and drag my feet to the house.

I want to collapse and sleep until tomorrow.

Or next week, if that’s possible.

Then I recall Mom’s dark circles and I jog back to the car, get the sleep aid I bought this morning, and go inside.

I head to her room, which is rare as hell for me to do. But I guess I just need my mom right now.

Just like that red night.

It’s ironic how we’re not really that close, but she’s the one person I turn to in my darkest moments.

Her bedroom is filled with model sketches and she has a mannequin in the middle that’s wearing half-black and half-white like the evil guy in Batman.

Countless copies of her couture house’s brochures are spread out on the coffee table and I can’t help my smile as I reminiscence about how far she’s come.

She started with nothing and built her way to the top by the sheer force of her determination and ambition. And that alone is awe-inspiring.

A few wedding dresses lie on the bed as part of her new collection, I assume. Chester Couture has the most sought after wedding dresses and not just anyone can afford them. Mom pays special attention to their design more than anything else.

I pause when I see red droplets on one of them.

Please tell me she didn’t prick her fingers again. Or worse, she overworked herself until she had a nosebleed.

I head to the bathroom and raise my hand, about to knock. The sound of heaving stops me in my tracks. It’s so raw and haunting that my ears prickle.