Keeping It Fluid -10

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The police arrived early the next morning.

Mom had called them as soon as she saw the last message, her voice sharp and cold as she explained the situation. She didn't care if the school wouldn't act. She didn't care if the police thought there was "no physical threat yet."

She wanted this on record.

So now, I sat stiffly on the couch, my arms wrapped tightly around myself as two officers stood in our living room, taking down notes.

Officer Reynolds, a middle-aged man with tired eyes and a thick mustache, flipped through his notebook. "And you said the number changes every time you block it?"

I nodded. "Yeah." My voice sounded small, and I hated it. "Uncle David says it's an app. A fake number generator."

Reynolds hummed, scribbling something down. His partner, a younger woman named Officer Diaz, leaned forward. "Did the messages stop after last night?"

I hesitated. "Yeah. After that last one."

Nice that you prayed. You're going to need it.

I swallowed hard, my fingers digging into the sleeves of my hoodie.

Mom, who sat beside me, scoffed. "So what are you going to do about this? Because I'll tell you right now, I'm not waiting around for this girl to escalate."

"We're going to start by questioning Tasha Caldwell," Officer Reynolds said. "If she's responsible, she might slip up."

Dad, who had been standing with his arms crossed, let out a breath. "She's not going to admit it."

Uncle David, sitting in the corner, smirked slightly. "That's what makes it interesting."

I looked at him, my stomach twisting. He was too calm. Like he already knew exactly how this was going to go.

And deep down... so did I.

It's been an hour now. Sitting in the cold, sterile office of the police station, I felt like I was going to be sick.

Tasha sat across from me, a smirk playing at the edges of her lips, but her expression was otherwise relaxed. Like she had nothing to worry about.

Like she already knew she was going to get away with this.

Officer Diaz was at the desk, her voice even as she addressed her. "Tasha, do you know why you're here?"

Tasha tilted her head slightly, her eyebrows raising just enough to feign confusion. "No clue. But I'm guessing it has something to do with Emily?"

I stiffened at the way she said my name—sweet, light, like she was amused.

Mom, sitting next to me, barely contained her glare.

Officer Reynolds took over. "Emily has been receiving threatening messages. Since you two have a documented history, we have reason to believe you may be responsible."

Tasha's eyes widened slightly, and for a second, I almost believed her surprise was real. Almost.

Then she let out a breathy laugh, shaking her head. "Are you serious?"

No one answered.

She placed a hand over her chest, her expression twisting into something resembling offense. "I haven't even spoken to Emily since I was expelled. Why would I text her?"

I clenched my fists.

Officer Diaz leaned forward. "Would you be willing to hand over your phone?"

Tasha shrugged easily. "Yeah. Sure."

Then, to my absolute horror, she pulled her phone out and handed it over without hesitation.

That was the moment I knew.

She had planned for this.

Officer Diaz took the phone and began scrolling, her expression unreadable. A few minutes passed in silence, only the soft sound of her fingers swiping across the screen.

Then she shook her head. "No messages. No evidence of any threatening texts."

Mom's head snapped toward me. "Emily, are you sure—"

"I didn't make them up!" I burst out, my voice sharp and desperate. "I have screenshots!"

Officer Reynolds raised a hand to calm me. "We believe you. But it doesn't appear these messages came from Tasha's phone."

Mom stood, furious now. "What about an app? A fake number generator?"

Officer Diaz went through a few more settings before shaking her head. "There's nothing on here."

Tasha smiled.

It wasn't big. It wasn't obvious.

But I saw it.

I felt the ice creeping into my veins, the realization clicking into place.

She had wiped it.

She had planned for this.

She knew this would happen, and she covered her tracks before they even called her in.

Tasha tilted her head, looking at me with mock concern. "Emily, are you sure it was me? Because this... kinda sounds like someone trying to frame me."

I couldn't breathe.

She was turning this around.

Making it seem like I was paranoid, desperate, maybe even lying.

Mom wasn't buying it, though. She stood tall, her voice sharp as a knife. "We are not falling for this act. You're playing a game, and I promise you, you won't win."

Tasha blinked at her innocently. "Mrs. Blake, I really don't know what you're talking about."

I wanted to scream.

I wanted to yell at the officers to check again, to break her phone open, to dig until they found what she was hiding.

But deep down, I already knew it was pointless.

She had done this exact thing before.

Officer Reynolds sighed. "At this time, we don't have enough evidence to accuse Miss Caldwell of anything."

Mom bristled. "You're kidding me."

He held up a hand. "That doesn't mean we're done looking. But for now, we don't have enough to act on."

Tasha leaned back in her chair, looking completely unbothered.

I felt like I was going to explode.

Mom put a hand on my shoulder, guiding me to stand. "Come on. We're done here."

Tasha gave me a mocking little wave. "See you around, Emily."

The words sent a cold shiver down my spine.

I didn't respond.

I didn't even look back.

I just followed Mom out of the office, my heart hammering, my mind spinning, my skin crawling with the horrible, suffocating feeling that she had just won this round.

I barely made it to the car before my knees felt weak.

Mom yanked open the driver's side door with more force than necessary, her jaw tight, her hands gripping the wheel like she wanted to strangle something.

Dad got into the passenger seat, muttering curses under his breath, and Uncle David slid into the back with me, his expression unreadable.

The car was silent as Mom started the engine.

I stared blankly out the window, my chest aching, my hands curled into tight fists in my lap.

She got away with it.

She played them.

She acted so innocent, handed over her phone like she had nothing to hide, and now the police were letting her walk.

Tasha had won this round.

And worst of all? She knew it.

**BZZT.**

I flinched.

The sound sliced through the silence, making my stomach lurch.

My hands shook as I reached for my phone, a horrible, sinking feeling settling in my gut.

One new message.

**UNKNOWN NUMBER: That was cute.**

**BZZT.**

**UNKNOWN NUMBER: Nice try, Emily. But you should know better by now.**

My breath hitched.

I blinked at the screen, my vision blurring, my heartbeat slamming against my ribs.

It was her.

The same number from last night.

I blocked it. I knew I did.

But here it was again.

Mocking me.

Proving that nothing we did mattered.

Proving that no one could stop her.

My throat closed up, my breath coming in short, sharp bursts.

I felt trapped, like I was suffocating in the backseat, the walls of the car pressing in.

I wanted to scream.

I wanted to throw my phone out the window, to make it stop, stop, stop—

"Emily?"

Uncle David's voice cut through my spiraling thoughts, steady and firm. "What is it?"

I swallowed hard, my fingers locking around the phone like a lifeline. Slowly, I turned the screen so he could see.

His entire expression shifted.

Gone was the calm, unreadable man from earlier.

His jaw tightened, his shoulders tensed, and something dark flickered behind his eyes.

Mom and Dad both twisted around in their seats, their faces paling as they read the message.

"She's taunting her," Mom whispered. "She waited until we left to send that."

Dad let out a slow, dangerous exhale. "Because she knew we wouldn't find anything on her phone. She knew this would happen."

Uncle David didn't say anything for a moment.

Then, in a voice so cold it sent a shiver down my spine, he muttered,

"She wants to play games? Fine."

He turned to me, his gaze piercing, unreadable, intense.

"We're done waiting."

The phone store smelled like plastic and stale coffee.

I sat stiffly in one of the chairs, my arms crossed tightly over my chest, while Mom handled the paperwork at the counter. Dad stood next to her, his expression unreadable, but I could tell from the way his fingers tapped impatiently against his wrist that he was just as frustrated as I was.

Uncle David leaned against the wall, checking his own phone, looking like this was just another mission to solve.

But for me?

This felt like losing something I couldn't get back.

The first phone number I had ever had.

I'd gotten it back in Georgia, back when I still lived with my birth parents. Back when things were different.

It was my number.

Mine.

And now, it was about to be erased.

I tried to tell myself it was just a number. That it didn't matter. That changing it wouldn't change who I was.

But deep down, I knew that wasn't true.

It felt like one more thing Tasha was taking from me.

First my safety. Now my phone number.

What was next?

"Alright," Mom said, turning back toward me. "It's done."

I swallowed hard. "So that's it?"

She nodded, her expression softening when she saw my face. "I know this is hard, sweetheart, but this will help. No more messages. No more threats."

I wasn't so sure about that.

But I didn't argue.

I just took the new SIM card from the employee and let them swap it into my phone.

The screen blinked out for a moment, then came back on.

Just like that, my old number was gone.

The one I had memorized since I was a kid. The one my dad had written down for me on a piece of paper when I first got my phone. The one I used to call my birth mom with, back when she still answered.

I bit the inside of my cheek, hard, forcing the lump in my throat to go away.

I couldn't cry over a phone number.

I wouldn't.

Instead, I nodded, pocketed my phone, and walked out of the store without another word.

The ride home was silent—except for Uncle David, who was already making calls.

"Yeah," he said into his Bluetooth earpiece, his voice clipped and professional. "I need a trace on a series of numbers. Burner accounts. Someone's using a generator to send messages without being tracked."

I glanced at him from the backseat. Was that even possible?

Uncle David caught my look and gave me a single nod, like he knew exactly what I was thinking.

I turned back toward the window, my mind racing.

Mom was gripping the steering wheel tightly, her knuckles white. "Are you sure your guy can track it?"

"He's better than the police," Uncle David said flatly. "They don't know what they're looking for. I do."

I bit my lip. "So what happens if we find out where it's coming from?"

Uncle David's jaw tightened slightly. "Then we'll know what we're dealing with."

I didn't like the way he said that.

Like there was more to it.

Like he was already three steps ahead, planning something I wasn't ready for.

The second we got home, Uncle David pulled out his laptop and set up at the dining table.

I hovered near the doorway, watching as he typed faster than I thought was humanly possible.

"This should take a few hours," he muttered, not looking up. "But we'll get something."

I hesitated. "And if we don't?"

He finally looked at me, his eyes cool, unreadable. "We will."

Something about the way he said it sent a shiver down my spine.

Mom sighed, rubbing her temples. "David, just—don't do anything reckless."

Uncle David smirked slightly but didn't respond.

Instead, he turned back to his screen and kept working.

I stood there, I hated my new number, my heart still twisting with the loss of the old one.

Everything about my life was changing.

And I wasn't sure how much of myself I was losing in the process.