The hours ticked by, and there was still no sign of Rose. Her phone went straight to voicemail, and even Elise, who usually tried to stay optimistic, was pacing the living room in worry. The house felt hollow without her usual defiant presence, and an unsettling thought gnawed at the edges of my mind: What if she wasn't coming back?
By nightfall, Elise was seated on the couch, her hands clasped together in silent prayer. "She's done this before," she murmured, more to herself than to me. "When she was younger, she'd vanish for days, and I'd never know if she was okay."
I stood by the window, staring out at the empty driveway. "She's an adult, Elise. She probably just needed some space."
Elise shook her head. "You don't understand. Rose pushes people away when she's hurting. She doesn't know how to ask for help."
Her words hung in the air like a weight, and I found myself wondering what kind of hurt Rose had been carrying all this time.
It was close to midnight when the sound of a car engine broke the silence. I moved to the window just as Rose's car pulled into the driveway, the headlights slicing through the darkness. Relief washed over me, but it was short-lived when I saw her stumble out of the car, leaning heavily against the door for support.
I was out the front door before I even realized it, Elise close behind me. Rose looked up, her eyes glassy and her movements sluggish.
"Rose, what happened?" Elise asked, rushing to her side.
"I'm fine," Rose slurred, waving a hand dismissively. But the way she swayed on her feet told a different story.
"You're not fine," I said, steadying her as she nearly fell. The smell of alcohol was strong, mixed with something else—something sharp and chemical.
Elise's face was a mask of worry as she helped guide Rose into the house. "Where have you been? We've been worried sick!"
Rose groaned, collapsing onto the couch. "I don't need a lecture, Mom. I'm a grown woman."
Elise opened her mouth to argue, but I held up a hand, signaling her to stop. "Let her rest," I said quietly. "We can talk in the morning."
Elise reluctantly nodded, retreating to the kitchen to get water and aspirin. I stayed by the couch, watching as Rose closed her eyes and muttered something incoherent.
"Rose," I said softly. "What's going on with you?"
She didn't answer, but her hand tightened into a fist, her knuckles white. I sighed, pulling a blanket over her before stepping back. Whatever was going on, it was clear she wasn't ready to talk about it yet.
The next morning, Rose was unusually quiet, her usual sharp edges dulled by what I assumed was a hangover. She sat at the kitchen table, nursing a cup of coffee, while Elise hovered nearby, clearly torn between anger and concern.
"I'm sorry," Rose said suddenly, her voice barely above a whisper.
Both Elise and I turned to look at her, surprised. It wasn't like Rose to apologize.
"I know I scared you," she continued, staring into her coffee. "I didn't mean to."
Elise's expression softened, and she placed a hand on Rose's shoulder. "We just want to help you, sweetheart. But you have to let us in."
Rose looked up, her eyes filled with something I hadn't seen before: vulnerability. "It's not that simple."
"Why not?" I asked, my tone gentle but firm. "Whatever it is, we can face it together."
She hesitated, biting her lip. For a moment, I thought she was going to open up. But then she shook her head, the walls coming back up. "You wouldn't understand."
"Try me," I said, echoing the words I'd said to her before.
She didn't respond. Instead, she stood up, her chair scraping against the floor. "I need to get some air," she muttered, grabbing her jacket and heading for the door.
"Rose—" Elise started, but I stopped her with a look.
"Let her go," I said. "She'll come back when she's ready."
Later that day, curiosity got the better of me. I couldn't shake the feeling that Rose's behavior was tied to something—or someone. Remembering the mysterious man in the car from the other night, I decided to dig a little deeper.
Her room was as chaotic as ever, but amidst the mess, I found a small, crumpled piece of paper on her desk. It was a receipt from a club downtown, dated the previous night. Scribbled on the back was a name: Leo.
The name felt familiar, and as I racked my brain, I remembered seeing it on her phone the night she first moved in. The text message: "I'll take care of it. Just be ready."
Who was Leo, and what kind of hold did he have over Rose?
That evening, Elise confronted Rose again. "Rose, you can't keep running from whatever it is you're dealing with. If there's something wrong, we need to know."
Rose's jaw tightened. "Why can't you just trust me? I'm handling it."
"Handling it?" I interjected. "Is that what you were doing last night, coming home barely able to stand?"
Her eyes flicked to me, anger flashing in their depths. "Stay out of it, Daniel. This isn't your problem."
"You're part of this family now," I said. "That makes it my problem."
For a moment, the room was silent except for the ticking of the clock. Then Rose laughed, a bitter, hollow sound. "Family," she said, shaking her head. "You have no idea what you're talking about."
And with that, she stormed out of the room, leaving Elise and me to wonder just how much deeper this rabbit hole went.