The silence on the phone stretched into a canyon. Elara could hear the faint, rhythmic crash of Hampton waves in the background Liam’s refuge, now his prison. Her own breath sounded like a traitor’s gasp in the quiet apartment.
Finally, he spoke, the words sandpapered raw. “The art gallery. Last month. He showed up just as we were leaving. He said the Rothko reminded him of a ‘storm he’d once chased.’ He was looking at you.”
It wasn’t a question. It was an excavation.
“The charity auction,” Liam continued, the memories slotting into place with horrible clarity. “He outbid you on that vintage necklace you loved. Said it was for a ‘worthy cause.’ You were so upset. I thought you were just disappointed…”
Each sentence was a twist of the knife. Elara closed her eyes, seeing it all through
