CHAPTER 1
772 Words
Eva Harrington knew something was wrong the moment the hospital called her by her full name.
“Mrs. Eva Harrington,” the voice said, careful and distant, as though her name carried weight they were afraid to drop. “You need to come in immediately.”
There was a pause after that. Not the kind that waited for a response, but the kind that confirmed something had already happened.
Eva did not ask why.
Hospitals did not call in the middle of the night to explain themselves.
She dressed without turning on the lights, her movements calm, deliberate. The house felt too large, too silent. Her husband’s study door was closed. Her son’s room down the hall was dark. She told herself they were simply late. She told herself many things as she drove.
The emergency ward was awake in the way only grief could keep it awake. Bright lights. Muted voices. The sharp smell of antiseptic that clung to the back of her throat. A nurse approached her almost immediately, clipboard pressed tight against her chest.
“Mrs. Harrington?” she asked.
Eva nodded once.
The nurse gestured for her to follow and began walking without waiting. Her shoes squeaked against the polished floor, each step echoing louder than the last. Eva noticed the nurse did not look back. She noticed how tightly her fingers gripped the clipboard.
“How many?” Eva asked.
The nurse slowed but did not stop.
“I’m sorry?” she said.
“How many,” Eva repeated, her voice steady. “How many of them?”
The corridor seemed to narrow.
The nurse swallowed. “Two.”
Eva stopped walking.
Two was not an answer. It was a collapse disguised as a number.
They asked her to sit. They asked her to wait. They handed her water she did not drink. Time stretched and folded in on itself, broken only by paperwork and whispered conversations that ended the moment she looked up.
A doctor finally approached her. Middle-aged. Tired eyes. The kind of man who had delivered bad news often enough to know when not to soften it.
Her husband’s name came first.
Shot while leaving his office. Late meeting. Witnesses unclear. Suspects unknown.
Eva listened, her hands folded neatly in her lap. She focused on the doctor’s mouth, on the way he avoided certain words. She did not cry. Crying would come later, she thought. Or not at all.
Then the doctor paused.
“There’s… someone else,” he said carefully.
Eva already knew.
Her son’s name followed.
Different location. Different time. Same night.
Something inside her went quiet.
This was not coincidence. Coincidences did not arrive this precisely. Coincidences did not require this much coordination.
A police officer replaced the doctor soon after. He introduced himself, offered condolences, spoke in sentences built from training manuals and distance. Eva recognized the tone. She had heard it in boardrooms when decisions were made long before meetings began.
He used words like tragic and ongoing investigation. He assured her there was no immediate cause for alarm, no reason to suspect anything beyond an unfortunate act of violence.
Eva nodded at the appropriate moments. She memorized his face.
“Do you have any enemies, Mrs. Harrington?” he asked.
She almost laughed.
“Everyone does,” she replied.
The officer hesitated, unsure whether to write that down.
When they finally allowed her to see them, it was brief. Controlled. She was grateful for that. Some things did not need to be carried forward in memory.
Afterward, she signed more forms. Made more decisions. Authorized more procedures. She was efficient. Polite. Unshaken on the surface.
It was only when the officer finished speaking—when the words stopped and the room went quiet—that Eva spoke again.
“Who benefits from this?” she asked.
The officer blinked. “Ma’am?”
“My husband and my son are dead,” Eva said calmly. “Someone benefits. Find out who.”
She stood before he could respond, gathering her coat as though leaving a meeting that had gone on too long.
Outside, the sky was still dark. Dawn lingered just out of reach, the city unaware of what it had lost—or created. Eva stood for a moment, breathing in the cold air, grounding herself.
Grief would come. Rage would follow.
But first, there would be clarity.
Whoever had done this had believed the story ended with blood.
They were wrong.
That night did not destroy Eva Harrington.
It stripped her.
And whoever had ordered those shots had made one irreversible mistake.
They had left her alive.
- Writer
