Through Time, For You.

Episode Seven

Let the dead stay dead.

The words stick to my tongue, leaving a bitter aftertaste as I sit in Miles’ car, my bloodied palm wrapped in a makeshift bandage. Soon after the incident, we had left. The investors weren't too thrilled but Miles’ hadn't cared and Will ended up taking care of it. Though the frown on his face was a clear indication that he needed answers.

Mr. Harrington gets into the driver's seat, a mix of emotions colouring his features. Earlier, he had insisted on Mr. Hughes, his driver – a balding man in his late thirties who was fiercely loyal – to go home. But he had not uttered a word to me which was worse than if he at least yelled. The drive back was quiet, the air filled with unanswered questions. I glance over at the man in the driver's seat – his jaw looked tight like he was trying to hold himself together. His face sharp under the city night light. Cold, unreadable and painfully beautiful.

When we reach his apartment, he doesn't utter a word to me, just unlocks the car and hands the keys over to a waiting young man. I step out, taking in the building before me. I didn't know what I had expected for a man like Mr. Harrington to live in.

His house was the kind that probably featured in luxury magazine covers with its driveway alone looking like it could host weddings. Even the black and white pebbles and carefully trimmed hedges adorning the driveway looked ethereal. As I walk further into the path leading to the building, I spot a black Aston Martin parked to the side casually. By the time I reach the front door, the sharp minimalistic vibe dares me to mess something up. Even the air smelled expensive. Mr. Hughes is waiting for me in front of an elevator that I assume led directly to Miles’ penthouse. The elevator dings to a stop and he leads me inside. I note how everything was soo… clean with floor to ceiling glass walls stretching across the living room – giving me a perfect view of Seattle's skyline.

“Keep me updated,” Miles says into his phone, voice clipped, hazel eyes pinning me to where I stood a few steps away from him. It's quiet for a while before he runs a hand through his hair. His suit jacket long discarded.

“Sit,” he orders and I do, perching on one of his pristine leather stools while he disappears into what I assume is the bathroom. I glance at my bloodied palm again – the full effect of what happened tonight slamming into me. I blink back tears as he returns holding a first aid kit and sleeves rolled above his forearms, his muscles flexing with each movement. Gently taking my palm in his, he tends to my cut too efficiently for my liking – like he had done it many times before.

“You shouldn't have done that,” he mutters, his voice slicing through the fog in my head, “What the hell were you thinking?”

“I wasn't,” I admit. A thought occurs to me, “What about the champagne –”

“It wasn't poisoned or anything” He's looking at me now, his features soft in the light. “Why did you think it was?”

“I–” The words lodge in my throat.

I was worried that someone wanted to hurt you.

That I couldn't let you die?

“I… just couldn't let you drink that”

His brows pinch as he looks at me, like he could tell I was holding something back but he lets it go. For now.

“You've been acting… different,” He's wrapping my wound in a bandage now.

I look at him until he does too, his eyes more green than brown under the lights.

“I'm always here Miles. Always remember that when it gets too hard to breathe,” I don't know why I say this but I do, thinking back to what he said at the balcony.

Sometimes, it gets hard to breathe.

When I get back to my apartment much later that night, I head straight to my closet, pulling out the journal from a hidden compartment. I set it on my bed, pacing back and forth . I needed all the help I could get. If there was someone trying to harm Mr. Harrington I needed to know and his journal seemed like a reasonable approach. Finally settling across it, I pull the book to my lap, noticing a page that was nearly hanging on and open that. I gasp. The letters were smudged, the strokes harsh and uneven like he was trying to convey something into it. It looked like the pen was pressed so hard, it almost tore through. It was dated two weeks before he died.

20th October, 2021.

I'm tired.

The sleeping pills don't work anymore. Not even night trips to Dr. Evans. Some days I wonder if anyone would notice if I eventually disappeared. They'd probably not care right? For them, I was just a means to an end. They'd even find someone else to run the Harrington group because I was just that. Replaceable. Maybe I should. The thought doesn't seem to scare me anymore.

A tear slides down my cheek as I abruptly close the book, throwing it at the other side of my bed. This felt so guttural. Like someone who held too much and hardly let any out. Like someone who didn't want to anymore. My mind takes me back to what Will said the day after Miles’ death.

Suicude.