Chapter Four: Games
1063 Words
The first sign was small enough to ignore.
Elizabeth had left her coffee cup on the desk that morning, half-full, the handle turned toward the chair where she had been sitting. When she returned from a long walk along the cliffs, the wind still tugging at her hair, the cup was still there. Only now the handle faced the window. It had been shifted just enough that the change felt intentional, the body of the cup pushed an inch closer to the edge of the desk.
She stood there for a moment, frowning at it, before telling herself she must have bumped it earlier without noticing. It was easy to dismiss a coffee cup.
The second sign was harder to brush off.
The curtains in her room had been drawn wide open when she left that morning. She liked the light flooding in, the way the sea glittered beyond the glass. Now, upon her return, they hung partially closed. Not enough to block out the view entirely. Just enough to dim the brightness, to filter the air into a softer, almost secretive shade. She rested her hand on the cool fabric, her gaze tracing the even line where it had been pulled. Someone had done this with care.
The third sign was the one that settled deep in her stomach.
She had left her cream-colored cardigan neatly folded on the armchair before heading to bathe. When she came back, steam still curling from her hair, the cardigan was no longer folded at all. It lay across the bed, spread out as if someone had been holding it or perhaps had placed it there deliberately. The sleeves stretched toward the pillows, the body loose and open. It did not look like a garment waiting to be worn. It looked like an object someone had handled and then left behind.
By the time she found the fourth sign, the day had worn into evening.
She had gone to the drawer where she kept her underthings, searching for a particular pair she favored. Soft silk in a pale cream, trimmed in delicate lace. They were not there. She sifted through the drawer again, then a third time, lifting each piece and shaking it out. Nothing.
Her hands went still, her gaze fixed on the empty space where she was certain they should have been. She had worn them two days ago, and she had done her laundry just yesterday. They should have been here.
The room felt heavier in that moment, the quiet pressing in from all sides.
She sat on the edge of the bed, the drawer still open. Her heartbeat was slow and deliberate, like it was weighing something she had not yet allowed herself to name.
When she mentioned it to Cory over dinner, his response was flat.
“Maybe you misplaced them,” he said without looking up from his plate.
“I did not,” she replied, sharper than she intended. “And the curtains were moved. My cardigan was on the bed. Someone has been in my room.”
Cory’s fork hit the plate with a soft clatter. “Elizabeth, you are acting paranoid.”
She leaned back, crossing her arms. “You think I am making this up?”
He shrugged, though his voice carried a faint bite. “I think you have been wound a little too tight lately.”
The conversation ended there. The silence that followed was worse than the words. Cory avoided her eyes, chewing slowly, his jaw tightening with each bite.
It was just before sunset when the invitation came.
Levi appeared in the dining room doorway, his hand resting lightly on the frame. “The terrace is set for wine,” he said. “You should join us.”
There was no question in his tone.
Elizabeth followed Cory outside, the warm light of the setting sun spilling over the stone terrace. The table had already been set. Bottles of deep red and pale gold rested in ice buckets. Crystal glasses caught the sunlight in thin glints. Small dishes of figs and cheese waited on polished trays. Below, the sea shifted and breathed, the sky glowing in deep fire and rose.
Levi was already seated. He gestured to the chair beside him, his gaze steady on Elizabeth. Cory stepped forward to take it, but Levi’s voice was quiet, pleasant, almost polite.
“That seat is for her.”
The faintest pause stretched in the air before Cory stepped back and sat across from them instead. Elizabeth lowered herself into the chair, the warmth of Levi’s presence brushing her shoulder even without his touch.
The tasting began with harmless observations about color and aroma, the small ritual of swirling the glass and holding it to the light. But Levi’s questions turned quickly.
“Where did you grow up?” he asked, his eyes fixed on her over the rim of his glass.
She answered. Before she could lift her wine again, his next question came. “Did you leave anyone behind when you came here?”
The words were shaped like idle conversation, but his gaze stripped away the pretense.
Cory cleared his throat. “You do not have to answer everything, Liz.”
Levi did not look at him. “She can decide that for herself.”
Under the table, Elizabeth felt the sudden, deliberate weight of his hand on her knee. At first, only the pressure of his palm. Then his fingers shifted slightly, enough to make her breath catch in her throat.
He did not look down. He did not even glance her way. He kept speaking to Danny about the wine’s acidity, his hand a quiet, unmovable claim. Only after several long seconds did he draw it away, his expression unchanged.
When she looked up, Cory was watching her. His expression was tight and unreadable.
The tasting went on until the sun sank low, and the terrace filled with the soft indigo light of twilight. The guests began to drift away, their voices fading into the depths of the house.
Elizabeth stood, her glass empty, and turned toward the door. Levi was beside her before she took two steps.
His voice was quiet, meant only for her. “You look better beside me.”
The words closed around her like a hand gripping her wrist. Not a compliment. A statement.
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