Don’t do this to me. Don’t fucking?—
“We all thought there was a chance she was alive. But she was found this morning. Cops are identifying her.”
It’s not her.
Continue to tell yourself that.
“She looked like her?”
“The police said she’d be identified through an autopsy.”
In other words, they couldn’t tell what she looked like when they found her. My stomach, it goddamn lurches. The images that torment my mind stem from knowing what men like me do to people who are sent for.
“Long black hair. Blue eyes. Pale skin. That’s what the conference said.”
Ifeelall the blood drain out of my face. “Thanks for the information.”
He nods, calling out my order. Before he’s reached the counter, I’ve left euros on the table, sliding out the door.
There are no stars tonight.
The crescent moon provides no light.
The day drifted by slowly as I stood here, anticipating the sunset and a quieter street. Children have retreated indoors while the elderly have brought their chairs in from the sidewalks, settling into their beds. Meanwhile, the unaware café owner has shut his doors and headed home.
My hands shake against the railing as I force myself up the stairs, guilt gnawing at my bones with each step.
Like a machine, I observe the barricaded entrance and the police tape, then approach the window, not thinking twice before I slam my elbow into the glass, shattering it.
The moment I'm inside, I'm struck.
The scent of her. It’s everywhere.
Vanilla. Warmth. Cotton. A hint of her cherry wash.
My wifewashere.
No longer merely my imagination, my eyes follow the devastation surrounding me. The broken legs of the chairs, the indents of furniture in the walls, the shattered glass, and the stripped mattress. The insides have been stabbed, scoured for money, no doubt.
My fears come to life through the scene around me.
My hand against the pillar steadies my legs.
Breathe. Don’t lose it, X.
Even with blatant evidence of a struggle, I shrug off my distress and the café owner’s goddamn terrifying words, scanning the room for something—anything—that will tell me what’s happened. She was obsessed with decorating our apartment in the city with warm tones, flowers in every corner, pictures of us on every mantel.
This studio is barren. There’s no life anywhere.
Pulling open the fridge, I find bottled water. Ointment. Not much else. On the table, my fingers lift a roll of hand tape. A punching bag is chained in the corner. In the bathroom, everything’s where she left it. A single toothbrush. A brush holding long strands of her hair.
There’s nothing. Nothing that could help me.
It takes one step out of the bathroom to sense that I'm no longer alone in this apartment. My eyes pin onto the man by the window, his hands stuffed in his pockets.
Dominic Strata is smiling.Smiling.
He knew I’d come. I knew he’d know.
