The Silence That Followed The Dead
1455 Words
Serena
It had been a month since Eleanor died, and I still didn’t know how.
Everyone kept calling it “an accident”—a vague, fragile word that meant nothing and explained even less. There was no elaboration, no mention of where it happened, how it happened, or even what exactly happened. And I, her sister, had been expected to accept that and move on.
But I couldn’t.
I woke up that morning with a tight knot in my chest and a thought I couldn’t shake: What if I’m missing something? What if all of us had been too busy grieving—or pretending not to grieve—to notice that something wasn’t right?
I didn’t tell anyone where I was going. Damien had barely looked at me in days. He’d withdrawn into himself, into his cold silence and late nights in the study. He wouldn’t have noticed even if I’d vanished.
I took one of the cars from the garage and asked the driver to drop me at the city hospital—the one where Eleanor’s body had been taken for post-mortem.
It was my first time there since the funeral.
The hospital was a sterile, gray building that felt like it was built to swallow people whole. The air inside was cold, thick with disinfectant and fluorescent light, the kind that made everything look washed out—like even color was afraid to exist here.
I approached the reception desk with my heart thudding so loudly I could barely hear myself speak.
“Hi… I’m Serena. Serena Laurent,” I added hesitantly. That name still felt foreign on my tongue. “I came to ask about the post-mortem report for my sister, Eleanor Laurent. She passed away last month. There were… very few details given. I just want to understand what happened.”
The woman at the counter gave me a professional smile and typed something into her computer. Her long nails clicked against the keyboard, and I could barely breathe as I watched her.
After a minute, she looked up at me.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but the report has already been submitted to the next of kin.”
I blinked. “What?”
“The official post-mortem report was released to Mr. Damien Laurent. The deceased’s husband. That’s standard protocol in these cases.”
“But I’m her sister,” I said, my voice a little sharper. “We were very close. I just need to know—was it a car crash? Did she die instantly? Where did it happen? Was there someone with her? No one has told me anything. Please.”
The receptionist’s expression softened, but it didn’t change her answer.
“I understand. But the hospital cannot release any sensitive medical or legal information without the written permission of the person who received the report. I’m very sorry.”
I stared at her, stunned. “So… I don’t get to know what happened to my own sister?”
Her smile faltered slightly. “If you’d like, I can give you the paperwork needed to request access—”
“No, it’s fine,” I murmured, backing away from the counter. “Thank you.”
I left the hospital feeling like the walls were closing in around me.
Outside, the sun was too bright. Too cheerful for the storm inside me.
I stood on the sidewalk and wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly aware of how deeply cold I felt. Not from the weather, but from the ache crawling through my skin, the questions burning in my throat.
Why hadn’t I thought to ask Damien about the report earlier?
Why hadn’t he told me about it?
More importantly… why had he kept it from me?
He knew I was searching. Knew I’d been drowning in grief. Knew how much Eleanor had meant to me—how much she still did.
So why would he withhold something like that?
Unless…
I swallowed hard, trying to silence the ugly thought rising in the back of my mind.
Unless he had something to hide.
I hated myself for thinking it. Hated the suspicion creeping into my blood. Damien had been distant, yes—but he had also lost his wife. Maybe that grief was too heavy for him to speak of. Maybe he thought he was protecting me.
But it didn’t explain the silence.
It didn’t explain the closed casket at the funeral. The rushed burial. The way everyone tiptoed around the word “accident” like it might shatter if spoken too loudly.
I climbed into the car and stared out the window as we drove back to the manor.
I remembered how Eleanor used to drive. So careful. Two hands on the wheel. Seatbelt always on. Never a single ticket. Never a reckless moment.
How could she have died in an accident?
It didn’t make sense. None of it made sense.
And now Damien had the report that might explain everything—and he hadn’t shared a word of it.
My hands curled into fists in my lap.
I needed to know what that report said. I needed to see it for myself.
Because something inside me—something deep, instinctive, and sharp—was whispering that Eleanor hadn’t just died.
She had left this world surrounded by silence. And someone had made sure it stayed that way.
And I wasn’t going to let that silence last much longer.
The Black Enterprises building loomed over the street like it was carved from storm clouds and steel. Cold glass, sharp corners, and an air of untouchable power surrounded it. It was everything Damien embodied—pristine, commanding, distant.
I got out of the car without waiting for the driver to open the door. My heels clacked on the glossy white floor of the lobby, echoing loudly in the polished silence. The receptionist, a young woman with a sleek ponytail and perfect posture, looked up from her computer with a practiced smile.
“Good morning, miss. Do you have an appointment?”
I didn’t even pause. “I need to see Damien. It’s urgent.”
The smile stayed in place, but the tone sharpened. “Mr. Laurent is in a meeting. I’m afraid you need an appointment to go past security.”
I exhaled harshly. “I’m his wife.”
Something flickered in her eyes, but she kept her voice neutral. “I understand, but unless your name is listed for clearance—”
“Serena?”
My head snapped around at the sound of his voice.
Damien stood near the elevator bank, dressed in a charcoal suit that looked like it had been tailored straight onto his body. His expression was unreadable as he walked toward us.
The receptionist straightened immediately. “Mr. Laurent, this lady claims she is—”
“She’s my wife,” he interrupted smoothly. “Let her through.”
The woman blinked, clearly stunned, but nodded.
“Of course, Mr. Laurent.”
I didn’t miss the way heads turned across the lobby, whispers barely hushed as staff members took in the unexpected revelation.
Damien didn’t speak to me as he led the way to the elevator. The ride up to the 25th floor was silent except for the mechanical hum. I could see our reflections in the mirror-paneled walls—his stoic and unreadable, mine flushed and defiant.
The doors slid open to reveal a vast, minimalistic office space. It was all glass and chrome, with towering windows that overlooked the city skyline. Damien walked ahead without glancing back, his long strides purposeful, and I followed him into his private office.
The door clicked shut behind us.
“You knew,” I said, my voice sharp. “You had the post-mortem report this whole time.”
Damien didn’t sit. He turned slowly to face me, jaw tight.
“I did.”
“And you didn’t think I deserved to know?”
He studied me for a moment, something cold flickering behind his eyes. “You were already struggling. I didn’t see the point in giving you more pain.”
I laughed bitterly. “More pain? You thought hiding the truth would spare me? Damien, she was my sister. My only sister. I deserve to know how she died.”
He sighed and moved to the sleek black desk, opening a locked drawer. From inside, he pulled out a manila envelope and placed it on the surface between us.
“Here.”
I stared at it like it might burn me. My fingers trembled as I reached for it, the weight of months of grief and confusion pressing on my chest.
“It wasn’t an accident, was it?” I asked quietly.
Damien didn’t answer.
- Writer
