The scent of roses clung to the air like a lie too sweet to swallow. Bouquets smothered the living room, their petals bright and cruel against heavy drapes that swallowed the winter light. Ethan sat forward on the velvet sofa, elbows resting loosely on his knees, but nothing about his posture was relaxed. Beside him, Marcus Bennett leaned back, pretending calm, though his jaw ticked once, betraying his fatigue. This wasn’t the first house they’d been in this week—and it wouldn’t be the last.
The widow across from them perched on a high-backed chair, wrapped in black like a portrait of mourning torn from a glossy magazine. Her hands fluttered to an embroidered handkerchief, pressing it against eyes that glittered, wet but oddly bright.
“My husband,” she began, voice trembling, almost artf
