His gaze sweeps over me, his expression inscrutable, as if sizing me up is instinctive. I scan the room again, letting the silence stretch.
“You don’t need to like me,” I say, my tone calm but firm, cutting cleanly through the quiet. “The only reason you’re in this house is because you’re important toher. To Ophelia.”
I pause, locking eyes with him, the force behind my words deliberate. “Be good to her. That’s all I ask. Even when things get difficult and you’re frustrated, be good to her.”
His eyelids lower in a slow blink. Just once.
Is that acknowledgment? A subtle message I can’t quite decode?
“Do you understand me?” I ask, keeping my voice steady but laced with intensity. “One snap, some bad shit, and you’re out.”
He blinks once again.
I narrow my eyes, studying him, trying to untangle the flicker of something—recognition? Defiance? “Okay, you do understand. So, do you know who Ophelia is? Who she was to you?”
His eyes widen just slightly, then: blink. Blink.
“What the fuck does that mean?” I mutter under my breath, more to myself than him.
He watches me, his expression unreadable, though there’s a tension there I can’t place. It mirrors the one tightening in my chest. “Alright,” I say, exhaling slowly. “Let’s simplify this. One blink means yes. Two blinks mean no. Got it?”
He stares at me for a beat, then blinks once.
“Good,” I say, leaning back slightly, though calm is the last thing I feel. “Let’s start over. Do you know who Ophelia is?”
Blink. Blink.
I rake a hand through my hair, frustration simmering just beneath the surface. “And you don’t know who I am either, do you?”
Blink. Blink.
“Okay,” I mutter, letting out a humorless laugh. “It must suck not to remember her. If I lost my memory, that would be the one thing I’d hope to keep. She’s special, you know?”
This time, he blinks once, deliberate and slow. I wait, half-expecting another blink, but it doesn’t come.
“You don’t know her, but you know she’s special,” I say softly, tilting my head as I study his face. There’s another blink. “Yeah, that tracks. I knew it the moment I met her.”
My gaze shifts, landing on the recliner in the corner before moving back to the bed where he lies. His body is still, his face pale but alert, his breaths slow and steady. He looks fragile in a way that catches me off guard, a sharp contrast to the image I had of him—the man who once filled the gaps in Ophelia’s life.
“I’m not here to confuse you,” I admit, lowering myself to sit cross-legged on the carpet at the foot of the bed. I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “But I can help with one thing. I’ll tell you about her. About the Ophelia I met three years ago.”
His eyes lock onto mine now, like he’s bracing himself for something he doesn’t even know is coming.
“The first time I met Ophelia,” I begin, “it was right outside this house. She was wearing this oversized sweater—you know, the kind that swallows a person whole. Like she was trying to disappear, but somehow, she still stood out. It was the way she carried herself—confident but guarded, like she knew exactly who she was but wasn’t sure anyone else would bother to notice.”
I pause, my gaze drifting toward the window where moonlight reflects off the still surface of the lake. The water is so calm it looks like glass, a mirror holding every secret the night has to offer.
“And God, I noticed,” I say, a wistful smile tugging at my lips. “Right then and there, I knew. She wasn’t like anyone else. Even if you don’t remember her—hell, even if you never do—you should know that much. She’s unforgettable.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Haydn
Three years ago. . .
The road stretches out ahead, bathed in the late afternoon glow filtering through the trees as I drive from Portland toward Lake Oswego. The Lotus Eletre glides beneath me, its electric motor purring quietly. The hum should be calming, but it barelytakes the edge off the irritation simmering under my skin. Lang’s voice buzzes through the speakers, and as usual, he’s nagging.
“I don’t need a house,” I argue, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter. The GPS chimes, announcing an upcoming turn, but I ignore it for now. My focus stays locked on Lang’s tone, equal parts exasperated and smug. “Why are we even having this conversation? I told you I’m fine with my current setup.”
