“You have always thought I killed him. Haven’t you?” Hunter said as he walked out of the kitchen, his voice deep and steady, almost casual, though the weight of his words filled the air like smoke. He moved toward the wine cabinet in the living room, reaching for a bottle with deliberate calm. “So, why are you asking me this question again and again?”
Mirabella was hot on his heel, her steps quick and unsteady as though she feared if she stopped following him, the truth would get lost forever. “I don’t think you killed him. Well… not entirely,” she said, her voice low but cutting. She hesitated before adding, “If I did think you killed my brother, I wouldn’t be here with you.”
Hunter paused midway through pouring himself a glass of scotch. The amber liquid stilled inside the crystal as h
