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It was late.

The lights were dim, the gummy worms were half-gone, and Mia had already stolen most of my pillows for "structural back support," whatever that meant. Jasmine sat cross-legged at the foot of the bed, phone in hand, scrolling through something with that suspicious look she gets when she's up to something.

"I wonder if anything ever came up online about him," she muttered.

I looked up. "Who?"

She glanced over at me like it was obvious. "Trevor."

Mia raised her eyebrows. "Seriously? You're Googling him?"

"I just wanna see if the trial made the news," Jasmine said, already typing. "Not like I'm printing out his mugshot or anything."

I didn't say anything.

I just watched as her fingers tapped the screen, then stilled.

She leaned in, brow furrowed. "Okay... whoa."

Mia leaned closer. "What?"

Jasmine turned the screen toward us.

There it was.

"Trevor Matthews Sentenced to 35 Years in Prison with Possibility of Parole After 20."
"Edina Teen Found Guilty of Assaulting Multiple Victims."

There were links. Headlines. Local articles. A blurry courtroom photo where he looked tired and cuffed, but still somehow smug.

And even though my name wasn't mentioned... I knew.

That story was about me.

My throat tightened.

"He really got thirty-five years?" Mia said, eyes wide.

Jasmine just nodded. "And it's everywhere. Forums, news sites, even those crime blogs that post legal docs like it's tea."

They were both staring at the screen.

But I was staring at the floor.

Even though it was old news—my news—it felt new all over again.

Like someone had peeled off a bandage I didn't know was still there.

They didn't say anything right away.

Jasmine slowly lowered her phone, the screen going dark as she let it rest on her knee. Mia shifted closer, her playful energy from earlier completely gone now. The room felt still—not uncomfortable, just... careful.

I kept my eyes on the blanket.

"I didn't think it'd be out there," I said finally. "I thought maybe they'd talk about the trial or the sentence, but not like that. Not everywhere."

Mia's voice was quiet. "They didn't say your name. But... yeah. It's still a lot."

"It's weird," I said. "Seeing it like that. Like it's just... a headline. Something people scroll past and talk about like they know the story. Like I'm just one line in someone else's true crime blog."

Neither of them jumped in. They just listened.

"I thought it would feel good," I continued. "You know? Seeing that he got sentenced. That it's real. But it just makes me feel... tired."

"Because it's not over," Jasmine said gently. "Not really. Not for you."

I nodded, and for a second, my throat felt tight. Like the tears were thinking about showing up, but hadn't quite committed yet.

"I still think about it," I whispered. "Even when I don't want to. And sometimes I feel like people look at me like they're trying to figure out what kind of girl I am now. Like surviving made me into something different."

"You're not different," Mia said. "You're just... real. And strong. And probably the only person I know who could survive all that and still find a way to laugh at me when I trip over my shoelaces."

That made me smile.

Jasmine reached over and nudged my arm. "And for the record? You're more than a headline. Always were."

I leaned back against the wall, letting their words settle in.

Maybe the internet didn't forget.

But they remembered me the right way.

I looked down at my phone, the glow lighting up my face in the quiet room.
The conversation with Mia and Jasmine was over, but something still tugged at me.

I opened my browser and typed a name I hadn't thought about in a while.

Zoe Cardwell.

And there it was—second result down, tucked under a local headline I didn't recognize.

BREAKING: Edina Police Confirm Identity of Suspect in Brick-Throwing Incident

Published two days ago – The Minnesota Star Tribune

Edina, MN — The suspect involved in a tense standoff with law enforcement earlier this week has been identified as Zoe Cardwell, 17, of Edina. Cardwell was fatally shot during the confrontation after reportedly drawing a weapon on police.

Authorities now confirm that Cardwell was the individual captured in Ring doorbell footage near the residence of a local Edina family, where a brick was thrown through the window in a targeted act of vandalism last month. At the time, investigators believed the figure in the video was male due to the suspect's short hair, build, and attire.

Further analysis, including facial recognition software and matching of fingerprints found at the scene, confirmed that Zoe Cardwell was behind the incident. Police believe Cardwell deliberately altered her appearance to mislead identification efforts.

The vandalism was part of a string of escalating threats made toward the victim and family members connected to a prior investigation, according to sources within the FBI.

The standoff occurred in an abandoned warehouse in West Edina after Cardwell was tracked using cellphone data and traffic camera footage. FBI negotiators attempted for several hours to convince her to surrender peacefully. Officials say Cardwell brandished a weapon and aimed it at law enforcement before she was shot by police.

She was pronounced dead at the scene.

Authorities stated that with Cardwell deceased, the investigation into the harassment and threats may be nearing its conclusion, though related leads are still being pursued.

"That explains why I haven't heard anything from that case in a while," I murmured, staring at the phone screen like it might change if I blinked enough.

Jasmine, still lounging on the bed next to me, turned her head just slightly—and stopped mid-chew on her last gummy worm.

"Hey," she said gently. "What is it?"

I didn't answer right away. I just kept looking at the article, the headline blurring slightly at the edges.

She was pronounced dead at the scene.

The Ring camera. The figure outside our house.
The brick crashing through the window.
The fear I felt after that. The paranoia.
The way I couldn't sleep without checking the locks twice.

"It was her," I finally said, voice quieter than I meant. "The one outside our house. The one who threw the brick."

Mia sat up, instantly alert. "Wait—Zoe?"

I nodded. "They thought it was a guy because of the way she looked in the footage. But it was her. The article says so."

Jasmine's eyes were on me now—not just watching, but seeing me. Really seeing the way my shoulders tensed. The way my thumb was pressed too tightly against the edge of my phone. The way I hadn't really breathed since I read the article.

"Emily," she said softly, "are you okay?"

I didn't lie.

I didn't say "I'm fine."

I just shrugged.

"I don't know."

I stared down at the phone, the screen slowly dimming, the words still burned into my mind.

That's why Mom didn't say anything to me.

Why she kept dodging the question.
Why she told me "not right now" with that quiet look on her face.
Why she and Dad were whispering with Uncle David the night after the tour, like the truth might be too much.

Because it was Zoe.

Because it was over.
And she didn't want to tell me that someone was dead.

She didn't want me to carry that weight.

I swallowed hard, throat dry.

"She was outside my house," I said quietly. "She threw a brick through the window, and then she just... disappeared. I thought she'd come back. I was scared she was watching us. I couldn't sleep. I thought we weren't safe anymore."

Jasmine shifted closer and placed a hand on my back.

Mia didn't say anything. She just reached for my hand and held it gently between hers.

"And now she's gone," I added. "And no one told me. Because they thought I couldn't handle it."

"They were just trying to protect you," Jasmine said softly. "But that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt."

I nodded, blinking fast.

"It's like... I should feel relieved," I said. "But I don't. I just feel... weird. Like I don't know how to feel at all."

Mia squeezed my hand. "You don't have to feel anything right now. You just have to breathe."

So I did.

One shaky breath at a time.

I couldn't sit still.

Not anymore.

I handed Mia my phone and stood up so fast I nearly tripped on my own blanket. Jasmine called my name, but I didn't stop. I flew down the stairs, my heart pounding harder with every step, anger and confusion bubbling in my chest like it had been waiting for this exact moment to boil over.

I reached the living room and saw Mom, curled up on the couch with a book in her lap, glasses perched low on her nose like it was just another quiet night.

She looked up and smiled when she saw me.

I didn't smile back.

"Why didn't you tell me?" I demanded, voice shaking.

Her smile dropped instantly. "Emily—"

"No! Don't do that. Don't soft-voice me right now. You knew! You knew it was Zoe who threw the brick. You knew she was the one in the video and you didn't tell me she was dead. You didn't tell me anything!"

Her mouth opened like she was about to speak, but I didn't give her the chance.

"Do you know what that did to me?" I snapped. "I spent days thinking she was still out there. That she was watching. That she'd come back. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her in the dark. Every time the house creaked or the wind hit the window, I thought it was her."

My voice cracked then—but I didn't stop.

"And you just... let me believe that. You let me sit in that fear like it was fine. Like it wasn't eating me alive."

Mom stood now, her hands trembling slightly. "Emily, I didn't want you to carry more than you already were. You've been through so much—"

"So you lied?" My eyes stung. "You just left me in the dark? You didn't even trust me with the truth?"

"Sweetheart—"

"I'm not a little kid anymore!" I shouted. "You don't get to decide what I can and can't handle. Not after everything I've already survived."

I could feel the tears sliding down my cheeks now, fast and hot and angry.

"I deserved to know."

Mom didn't say anything right away. She just looked at me—really looked at me—with that devastated, broken expression that only made my chest hurt more.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I was trying to protect you. But I was wrong."

I didn't answer.

I couldn't.

I stood there, shoulders shaking, tears slipping down faster than I could stop them.

And then...

Mom stepped forward.

Slowly. Cautiously. Like approaching a wounded animal—except this time, I was the wounded animal.

She didn't say anything. She didn't try to explain again.

She just wrapped her arms around me and pulled me in tight.

I wanted to pull away at first. I really did.

But my body didn't listen.

It just collapsed into her like it had been waiting.

I buried my face into her shoulder, sobbing so hard I couldn't breathe. All the words I'd held back for weeks came out in pieces, broken by gasps and tears.

"I was so scared," I choked. "I thought she'd come back. I didn't sleep. I didn't feel safe. Not even here."

"I know, baby," she whispered, holding me tighter. "I know. I should've told you. I should've said something sooner. I'm so sorry."

We stayed like that for a few seconds—just me and her, surrounded by the kind of silence that only comes after something big breaks.

Then...

"Everything okay in here?"

I turned slightly, still pressed into Mom's shoulder, and saw Uncle David standing in the doorway, looking worried and confused.

Mom glanced over at him with that "not now" look only moms can deliver.

"David," she said gently but firmly. "Give us a minute."

He hesitated. Then nodded slowly. "Yeah. Of course."

But just as he turned to go, Dad walked in from the other side of the hallway, eyes wide, clearly hearing the tail end of everything.

He opened his mouth like he was about to jump in—

—but Uncle David stopped him with a hand on the shoulder.

"Not yet," he said quietly. "Let her talk to her mom."

Dad looked at us for a second longer—me in Mom's arms, tears still streaking my cheeks—and then gave a small nod.

The two of them slipped away, giving us space.

And for once, I didn't feel surrounded by secrets.

Just love.

Even if it hurt.