The Secrets We Share

Anna steps off the bus with one battered suitcase and wide eyes, twenty years old and half a country from home. The house looks quiet from the street, curtains pulled tight. Margaret opens the door before Anna can knock. Tall, put-together, mouth already smiling like she owns the moment. Inside waits John, soft-spoken, shoulders tense, and his two stepbrothers slouched on the couch, shirts half-unbuttoned, tracking her with half-lidded stares. Edward, the father, stands at the back of the room, silent, one hand resting on the mantel like he’s weighing the evening ahead. Margaret guides Anna up the stairs, voice low and certain. She explains the summer immersion in soft little lies. A study program. A safe place. Then her fingers linger on Anna’s wrist too long as she says it. Downstairs a glass clinks. Someone laughs too loud. Anna’s suitcase sits by the bed. Margaret shuts the door behind them, lock sliding home with a click like the start of a game. Anna doesn’t hear the car in the driveway pull away. She won’t notice until later that the windows don’t open from the inside, or that Margaret never asked where she wanted to sleep.