CHAPTER 13
1177 Words
It’s been three weeks since the incident.
Not long enough for the world to forget, but long enough for it to grow impatient.
Eva woke before dawn, the room still wrapped in that fragile quiet that existed only in the moments before morning decided to begin. The curtains stirred faintly, the first pale suggestion of light slipping through the narrow gap she always left open. The air was cool against her skin, carrying the faint scent of rain from the night before.
She lay still.
Her eyes were open.
Sleep had become something she entered and exited without ceremony—no longer a place of rest, but a brief suspension. Dreams came rarely now, and when they did, they were indistinct. No faces. No voices. Just the sensation of reaching for something that wasn’t there.
Eva inhaled slowly, then exhaled.
The ceiling above her looked unfamiliar in the half-light, despite the fact that she had stared at it every morning for weeks. The room felt larger these days. Emptier. Sounds traveled differently without other bodies occupying the space.
She turned her head slightly.
The other side of the bed remained untouched, the sheets smooth, undisturbed. She noted this without reaction, the way one noted weather patterns or the time on a clock.
Eva sat up.
The movement was unhurried, but there was effort in it now—a subtle stiffness in her shoulders, a faint resistance in her chest as though something inside her needed coaxing to move. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and planted her feet firmly against the floor.
Cold.
Grounding.
She stood and crossed the room, bare feet silent against the wood. The mirror caught her reflection as she passed, and this time she stopped.
She studied herself carefully.
Her hair had grown slightly unruly, curls loosening where she no longer took the time to tame them. Dark circles rested beneath her eyes, not from exhaustion, but from vigilance. Her face looked sharper, angles more pronounced, as though grief had carved away softness she no longer required.
Eva raised a hand and brushed her thumb lightly along her lower lip.
There was a faint mark there—a habit she had developed unconsciously, pressing her lips together when thinking. She noted it, filed it away.
Everything was information now.
She dressed in layers—soft trousers, a thin sweater, a cardigan she could remove if the day warmed. Neutral colors. Nothing that announced emotion. Nothing that invited interpretation.
In the kitchen, the house greeted her with stillness. The refrigerator hummed quietly. The clock ticked. Outside, a bird called once, then fell silent.
Eva poured herself a glass of water and drank it slowly, standing at the counter. She did not turn on the lights. She didn’t need to.
Her phone lay face-down beside her, exactly where she had left it the night before.
She flipped it over.
No missed calls.
Three unread messages.
None of them urgent.
Good.
She sat at the small table by the window and opened her notebook. The pages were already half-filled—not with plans, but with observations. Times. Behaviors. Shifts she had noticed in the days following her visit to Aldrich.
He had reacted.
Not dramatically.
But enough.
Eva’s pen moved smoothly as she added another note.
Delay in response time. Increased third-party communication. Defensive silence.
She paused, tapping the pen once against the paper.
Grief, she had learned, sharpened focus when allowed to settle. When she stopped fighting it, stopped demanding it move aside, it became something else entirely—weight, yes, but also clarity.
At first, after the gravesite, she had done nothing.
No calls.
No meetings.
She had allowed the city to breathe around her, allowed people to assume what they needed to assume.
That assumption was her advantage.
Eva closed the notebook and stood, carrying her mug to the sink. As she rinsed it, her gaze drifted to the window, to the quiet street beyond. A delivery truck passed slowly, tires hissing faintly against damp asphalt.
Movement.
Always movement.
She dried her hands and walked into the study.
The room looked the same as it always had, but it no longer felt like a place of memory. It had become a place of function. She had removed nothing. Changed nothing.
Instead, she had redefined it.
Eva moved to the shelves and selected a folder at random, flipping through its contents without really reading. Her fingers traced the edge of a page as she thought.
Grief had softened her in exactly one way.
It had stripped her of hesitation.
She no longer wondered whether a move would be too much, too disruptive, too revealing. Those considerations belonged to a life where there had been something left to preserve.
Now there was only truth and consequence.
She returned the folder and picked up her phone.
This time, she scrolled deliberately.
She stopped on a name she had not contacted since the funeral.
Not an enemy.
Not an ally.
A witness.
Her thumb hovered.
Eva inhaled slowly, then pressed call.
The line rang once.
Twice.
Then—
“Mrs. Harrington,” a woman’s voice answered, surprised but controlled. “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you.”
“I know,” Eva said. Her voice was calm, low, unhurried. “That’s why I’m calling.”
A pause.
“I’ve been meaning to reach out,” the woman said. “But I didn’t want to intrude.”
Eva’s lips curved faintly—not into a smile, but into recognition.
“You’re not intruding,” she replied. “You’re remembering.”
Silence followed, heavier this time.
“I’d like to talk,” Eva continued. “In person.”
Another pause.
“About what?”
Eva walked to the window, watching the light strengthen outside.
“About what changed,” she said. “And who noticed.”
The woman exhaled softly. “That’s… a dangerous conversation.”
“Yes,” Eva agreed. “That’s why I chose you.”
The call ended shortly after.
Eva set the phone down and returned to the table, opening her notebook once more. She did not write the woman’s name.
She didn’t need to.
Instead, she wrote a single line beneath her earlier notes.
Witnesses don’t betray. They survive.
She closed the book.
The house was fully awake now. Light filled the corners. The clock continued its steady rhythm. Outside, life resumed its noise and urgency.
Eva moved through it calmly.
She gathered her coat, slipped on her shoes, checked her reflection once more. Her eyes met her own, steady and unflinching.
Grief lingered there.
But it no longer ruled.
As she stepped outside, the air felt different—brisk, alive, almost expectant. Eva paused briefly on the threshold, her hand resting against the doorframe.
Three weeks.
Enough time to mourn.
Enough time to be underestimated.
She closed the door behind her and walked forward, already thinking several moves ahead, already feeling the quiet momentum building beneath her feet.
Grief had done its work.
Now it would be useful.
- Writer
