The First Hint
695 Words
Elena didn't head straight to the bank.
Instead, she went up to her room, locked the door, and sat on the floor with her back pressed against the bed.
The key sat in her palm. Heavy. Accusing.
Killing our parents.
Damian always said his parents died in a plane crash. Officially: pilot error. An accident, nothing more.
But Julian had a recording of someone confessing.
He’s lying to you. About the fire. About Julian. About everything.
She pulled out her phone and searched: Cross family plane crash.
Up popped a handful of old, grainy scans from the Times, dated July 12, 2014. Billionaire Arthur Cross and his wife Vivian killed in a private jet crash. Damian and Julian Cross issued a joint statement.
Joint statement—“They were the best parents anyone could ask for.”
There was a photo at the bottom. Damian and Julian at the funeral. Both in black. Both faces set like stone. Damian’s hand rested on Julian’s shoulder—was that comfort, or was it control?
Elena zoomed in on Damian’s face.
He didn’t look sad.
He looked satisfied.
A knock at the door made her jump.
“Elena.” Damian’s voice. “Dinner’s ready. You never ate lunch.”
She shoved the key under the mattress, stood up, and opened the door.
Damian waited in the hall—black shirt, black trousers, a flour smudge on his cheek.
“You cook?” she asked.
“Not well.” He wiped at his cheek, noticed the flour, and actually almost smiled. “But I make the effort.”
He led her into a small kitchen—not the cavernous, professional one from the grand tour, but somewhere warmer, with a fireplace and a table set for two. Something simmered on the stove—smelled like tomatoes, garlic, basil, the works.
“You made sauce from scratch?” Elena stared at the bubbling pot.
“I bought the sauce in a jar and threw in fresh herbs. Cheating, but it tastes better.” That hint of a smile again—this time, it reached his eyes.
They sat down. Damian served. The pasta was average, but Elena ate every bite.
“Can I ask you something?” she said.
“You can ask me anything.”
“Did you ever really love me? Or did you just love the idea of me?”
Damian put his fork down and took a slow breath.
“When you were in the coma,” he said, “I read to you. Every day. Six months. I went through all your favorites—Pride and Prejudice, The Little Prince, everything Mary Oliver wrote.” He looked her in the eye. “The doctors told me you couldn’t hear a word. But I kept going anyway. Loving you was the only thing that kept me alive.”
Elena’s chest tightened.
“I don’t remember any of that,” she whispered.
“I know.” Damian reached for her hand across the table and held it. “But I remember enough for both of us.”
She should’ve pulled away.
She didn’t.
“Damian,” she said, slow and careful, “what happened to your parents?”
His hand tightened around hers for just a second before he let out a breath and loosened his grip.
“A plane crash. Pilot error,” he said.
“That’s what the papers say.”
“That’s what happened.”
Elena glanced down at their hands. His thumb traced gentle, quiet circles against her skin.
“Why do you ask?” His voice turned cautious.
“I’m just nosy,” she said, letting go and fidgeting with her fork. “Comes with the job.”
He studied her for a second. Then nodded.
“I’ve got something to show you after dinner,” he said. “In the study.”
“What is it?”
“A recorded confession.” He stood up and started stacking plates. “From the man who killed my parents.”
Elena felt her breath freeze.
Julian said Damian killed them. Damian says it was someone else.
One of them was lying.
Maybe both.
- Writer
