CHAPTER 3
807 Words
Eva first saw the headlines before she heard the knock at the gate.
She had not slept. Sleep felt like surrender, and Eva was not ready for that. She sat in the quiet of her living room, the curtains half-drawn, a cup of tea untouched beside her as the morning news played on mute.
Her husband’s face filled the screen.
Older photographs. Carefully chosen ones. The kind that suggested authority and ambition in equal measure.
Business Magnate Killed in Coordinated Attack.
The word coordinated sat heavily beneath his name.
Eva reached for the remote and turned the volume up.
“…sources suggest the incident may be linked to Mr. Harrington’s professional dealings,” the anchor said smoothly. “Police have not confirmed any connection, but speculation continues—”
Speculation.
That was how truth was buried. Not with lies, but with suggestions that never needed proof.
The screen shifted. A photograph of her son appeared next.
Son Also Found Dead the Same Night.
The anchor’s voice softened, as though youth made the story more tragic, more marketable. Eva felt something twist in her chest—not pain, not yet, but anger sharpened by precision.
They were already rewriting them.
She changed the channel.
Different station. Same narrative.
Another anchor. Another expert. Another panel of strangers discussing her family as though they were fictional characters whose endings had already been decided.
“Two separate locations raise questions,” one man said. “It’s unlikely this was random.”
“Exactly,” another replied. “These things don’t just happen.”
Eva stood and turned the television off.
She did not need them to tell her what she already knew.
Outside, the sound of voices rose. Low at first. Then louder.
Eva walked to the window.
A black van sat just beyond the gate. A man with a camera paced back and forth, adjusting his lens. A woman stood nearby, phone raised, speaking rapidly into it. Another man leaned against the fence, pretending to scroll while glancing up every few seconds.
They had found her.
The knock came moments later.
Firm. Confident. Entitled.
Eva did not answer.
The doorbell rang next.
She let it ring until the sound became unbearable, then pressed a button on the intercom.
“Yes?”
“Mrs. Harrington,” a man said brightly. “I’m with the Daily Herald. We’d just like a comment—”
“No,” Eva replied.
There was a pause, then laughter—light, disarming. “Of course. But the public is concerned. There are rumors—”
She cut the connection.
The phone on the table buzzed almost immediately.
Unknown number.
She let it ring.
Then another call.
And another.
Messages followed.
We’re sorry for your loss.
Do you believe your husband was targeted?
Did your son know anything about his father’s business?
Eva stared at the screen until the words blurred.
They were not asking questions.
They were shaping answers.
Her housekeeper approached quietly from the hallway. “Mrs. Harrington, should I call security?”
Eva shook her head. “Let them wait.”
Waiting made people careless.
By afternoon, the story had grown teeth.
Online articles speculated openly now. Old business deals resurfaced. Names were mentioned—some familiar, some deliberately vague. Eva recognized the pattern. This was not investigation. It was positioning.
By evening, condolences had turned into distance.
A longtime family friend sent a message that said everything without saying anything at all.
Perhaps it’s best if we don’t speak for a while.
Eva deleted it.
She sat alone as night fell, the house quiet in a way that pressed against her ears. She thought of her husband’s laughter. Of her son’s impatience. Of how easily the world had begun to dismantle them.
Not murderers.
Not criminals.
Conveniences.
Her phone vibrated once more.
This time, it was a private number.
She answered.
“Mrs. Harrington,” a woman said, her voice cool and professional. “I’m calling from the mayor’s office. We wanted to offer our deepest sympathies.”
Eva listened.
“We also wanted to suggest,” the woman continued carefully, “that it might be wise to remain out of the public eye for now. These situations can become… complicated.”
Eva smiled faintly.
“Is that advice,” she asked, “or instruction?”
A pause.
“Advice,” the woman said.
“Then I’ll consider it,” Eva replied, and ended the call.
She rose from her chair and walked toward the staircase, then stopped. Turned instead toward her husband’s study.
The door was closed.
She placed her hand on the handle.
Outside, cameras waited. Stories evolved. Narratives hardened.
They believed she would retreat.
They believed grief would silence her.
They were wrong.
If they wanted a story, Eva would give them one.
Just not the one they were telling.
- Writer
