Chapter 3: Folder Full of Lies

The living room smelled like wet wool and expensive cologne, the kind that sticks in your throat until you want to hack it out. Marcus stood dripping on the hardwood, flowers sagging in his fist like even they knew this entrance was pathetic. My hand was still tangled with Vivian's, her grip like iron, and for a second I couldn't decide if I wanted to yank away or squeeze harder.

I chose neither. Just sat there like an idiot while the storm screamed outside.

"Marcus," I said, testing the name. It didn't spark a thing. No warm fuzzies, no sudden rage. Just this vague itch like I'd forgotten where I put my keys. "You look like you swam here."

He flashed that boyish smile, the one that didn't reach his eyes. Water ran off his coat in little rivers. "Roads are shit, but this couldn't wait. Not with you shacked up here playing house again."

Vivian's fingers twitched around mine. She didn't let go. If anything, she shifted closer, her thigh pressing against mine. Not comfort. A claim. I caught her sharp clean scent under the rain stink and my stomach did a stupid little flip.

"Get out," Vivian said. Two words. Flat. The kind of quiet that raises the hairs on your arms.

Marcus laughed and dropped the flowers on the side table. They left a puddle right away. "Come on, Viv. You don't own her. Never did, no matter how much you paid for that fancy ring she threw back at you."

Ring. My brain snagged hard. I didn't remember any ring, but Vivian went rigid beside me.

I pulled my hand free, ignoring how cold it felt without hers. My notebook lay on the coffee table, open to those sketches of hands that looked too much like hers. I grabbed it and clutched it to my chest.

"Both of you, stop," I said. My voice came out steadier than I felt. "Marcus, what's in the folder? And how the hell did you get here in this weather?"

He shrugged off his wet coat and draped it over a chair like he owned the place. The folder stayed clutched in his hand, edges curling from the damp. "Drove most of the way, hiked the rest. Figured you'd want the truth before she locks you away in this tomb."

Vivian stood slowly, all that predatory grace on display. She moved between us without making it obvious. I noticed anyway. The swing of her auburn bob, the clench of her jaw.

"The baby isn't yours," she said, voice edged. "No matter what lies you printed."

He flipped the folder open with a flourish. Photos spilled across the table. Me and him at a bar, laughing. My hand on his arm. Another of us kissing, my hair longer, his fingers tangled in it. They looked recent. Too recent.

My stomach lurched. I pressed a hand to my belly, feeling the small hard curve. Just gas, I told myself. Too early for anything else. But it still felt like a warning.

"These are fake," Vivian said, but her fingers drummed once against her thigh. That tell.

I picked up one photo. My face looked happy in it. Younger. "I don't remember this," I whispered. My skin felt hot where the paper touched it.

Marcus knelt in front of me, close enough I saw water beading on his lashes. He reached for my hand and I let him take it because what else was I supposed to do? The room was tilting.

"We were together, Ingrid. For months after you left her. You said she was controlling, that she smothered you. Remember the fight? The one where you told her you were done?"

I didn't. But my leg throbbed, sharp reminder of the crash. The notebook in my lap felt heavier. I flipped it open. More sketches than I remembered. Vivian's mouth. Her hands on a wine glass. The cliff edge outside.

A flicker hit me then. Cheap red wine. Her laughter against my mouth. It mixed with Marcus's cologne now, his hand on my waist in the photos.

"Stop it," I said. It came out weak. My throat felt squeezed from the inside.

Vivian moved closer. She didn't touch me but her shadow fell over us both. "She's not leaving with you. The storm's too bad. You'd kill her on that road."

"Always the hero," Marcus sneered. He stood and pressed one more photo into my hand. This one showed the positive pregnancy test on a bathroom counter. My handwriting on the mirror behind it: Not his.

The words swam. My vision did too.

I stood too fast. The room spun lazy circles like it had in the hospital. My bad leg buckled. I grabbed for the couch and missed. Nausea rolled up hot and sour.

"Ingrid?" Vivian's voice cut through. Her hands were on my arms, steadying me. Her touch burned through my shirt.

"Dizzy," I managed. My notebook hit the floor, pages fanning open to show angry charcoal lines of her face. I hadn't realized I'd drawn that one.

Marcus said something that sounded far away. Vivian's arms came around me, one under my knees, the other behind my back. She lifted me like I weighed nothing.

I hated how safe it felt. Hated how my cheek pressed to her shoulder and her skin smelled warm and familiar in a way the photos with Marcus weren't.

"Put me down," I muttered into her collarbone. But my arms slid around her neck anyway. Traitor body.

"Shut up," she said softly. No heat in it. Just something raw that made my eyes sting. She carried me down the hall to my room on the ground floor, breathing even but her heart hammering against me.

She laid me on the bed carefully, hands lingering on my waist a second too long, fingers splayed over the small curve. I caught her wrist, holding her there. My pulse was everywhere.

"The photos," I said. My voice cracked. "Are they real?"

She didn't pull away. Those dark eyes saw too much. "Some of them. You and Marcus... it was brief. Stupid. You were trying to forget me."

Trying to forget her. The words sat heavy. The wine kiss came back stronger. Her mouth like berries and bad decisions. The way she'd laughed into it.

Below us, I heard Marcus moving. Drawers opening. Floorboards creaking.

Vivian's jaw tightened. "Stay here. I'll deal with him."

"Don't." I tightened my grip. "This is my mess too."

She hesitated. Her free hand brushed my hair back, fingers trembling. "You're carrying our baby, Ingrid. He can't change that with printed lies and wilted flowers."

Our baby. The words should have felt like a cage. They settled warm and terrifying behind my ribs instead.

I let go but only to grab the front of her sweater, pulling her closer until our foreheads almost touched. Our breath mixed. That needy heat rose again, stupid and insistent.

"I sketched you again," I whispered. "Your hands. Your mouth. I don't even remember doing it."

Her eyes closed for a second. When they opened, the raw possessiveness there hurt to look at. "Your hands always knew me. Even when your head didn't."

The moment stretched, fragile. I felt every place we touched, her hip against my thigh, her heartbeat through her clothes.

Glass shattered downstairs. Marcus swore.

Vivian pulled back like she'd been burned. She smoothed her sweater but her fingers lingered on the wrinkles.

"Rest," she said, clipped again. "I'll handle this."

I watched her go, door clicking shut. My hand found my belly, rubbing circles that didn't help. The notebook lay open on the floor, her sketched eyes staring back angry. Or hurt. I couldn't tell.

I rolled toward the window. Rain lashed the glass. The ocean was invisible but I could hear it, angry and hungry like my thoughts.

Marcus's photos kept flashing. That kiss. The mirror. Not his. What if it wasn't hers either? What if this baby belonged to some drunken mistake that led to everything?

My leg ached. The dizziness threatened to return if I sat up fast. I hated this body that betrayed me constantly, that remembered touches I couldn't place.

The door opened quieter this time. Vivian slipped in with water and crackers. Her shoulders were too straight, mouth too tight.

"He's gone," she said, setting the plate down. "For now. Roads are still shit."

I pushed up on one elbow, ignoring the tilt. "What did he say after I... you know."

She sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to touch me. Hands folded in her lap like she didn't trust them. "More lies. Claims he has proof the baby's his. Old texts, fake reports. He's desperate."

"Is he lying?" The question sat heavy between us.

Vivian looked at me then, really looked. Her eyes traced my face. "I don't know," she admitted. The honesty cracked something in me. "The timing's close. You left three months before the crash. Went back to your old life."

I reached for a cracker. The salt helped a little. She watched me eat like it was fascinating. Her fingers drummed on her knee then stilled.

"Why do you want this so bad?" I asked around a mouthful. "If I don't remember you, if I maybe slept with him... why?"

She was quiet so long I thought she wouldn't answer. The wind howled, making the house creak like it was gossiping.

"Because I remember enough for both of us," she said finally. "The way you'd draw me during fights because even angry you couldn't stop seeing me."

My throat closed. I set the cracker down. A new fragment hit me, darker than the kiss.

Her voice raised in anger. "If you walk out that door, don't come back. We're done."

My own voice, raw. "Good. Because I can't do this anymore."

Keys in my hand. Rain starting as I slammed the door.

I sat up with a gasp, heart pounding in my teeth. Vivian was there instantly, half out of the chair.

"What is it? The baby? Are you—"

"I remember the fight," I blurted. "The one that made me get in the car. You told me not to come back."

Her face did something complicated. Not crumpling. More like rearranging around pain. Relief, guilt, something uglier.

She sat on the bed, knees touching mine. Hands hovering like she wanted to touch but didn't dare. "Do you remember what I did to deserve it?"

The question hung sharp as broken glass. Outside the storm raged, but the silence in here was worse. My hand found my belly again.

I didn't know the answer. And I was starting to think I didn't want to.