Brielle’s POV
The words hung between us like thick fog: “I knew Fiona. Intimately.”
I stared at the man, his graying temples, the hollow beneath his eyes, the way he carried memories like they were fresh wounds. He hadn’t flinched, not even when I stepped forward, anger rising in my throat.
“You’re lying,” I said quietly, though my voice quivered more from fear than conviction. “You think dropping her name is enough to make me trust you?”
He reached into the breast pocket of his coat and pulled out an old photograph faded, curling at the edges. He held it like it was something sacred.
“Look,” he said.
I did. Fiona. Younger. Barefoot in a field of yellow grass, sunlight slicing through her dark curls. She was laughing, head thrown back, eyes turned toward the man beside her. Him.
My
