She shoved a handful of popcorn into my mouth to shut me up. I chewed through it, using her own blanket to shield my eyes when the autopsy photos popped up. “How do you sleep at night?” I mumbled.
“Like a newborn baby. Why do you care, anyway? And why are you in my bed? Get out.” She shoved at my hip with her feet, but I stayed rooted.
“If I told you I heard a noise and was scared, would you protect me?” I asked.
“No. I’d throw you to the wolves.”
“You wouldn’t get to keep the house, you know. The jet tub goes to Morgan in the will.”
“I’m an excellent forger,” she deadpanned.
I settled back against the headboard, the popcorn bowl wedged between us. I watched her sink into the pillows, her eyes fixed on the screen with a strange, analytical intensity. “Seriously, why do you like this stuff?”
“I love puzzles,” she admitted softly. “And it’s pure, morbid curiosity. Why do people do what they do? Why murder your wife so you can live with your mistress? Why not just get a divorce?” She gestured toward the screen. “Men in general—endlessly fascinating. How you’ve made it this far in life baffles me.”
I looked at her, the blue light of the TV casting shadows across her face. “Do you ever wonder why Javi cheated?”
Her head snapped toward me. The playfulness died instantly. I hadn't meant it as a jab—I was just blunt, and I wanted to know how her mind worked.
“You know, they say it’s never about the person being cheated on, but it’s hard to see it that way when you’re in it,” she said, her voice dropping an octave. “Honestly, he did me a favor. What hurt worse was him stealing my designs. That was….” She sighed, shoving more popcorn into her mouth. “No more serious talk. My head hurts. What’s Satan’s guilty pleasure? Other than death and mayhem.”
“You can’t laugh,” I warned.
“Cross my heart.” She made a sign of the cross over her chest.
I hesitated, then handed her my phone. She stared at the screen, her brow furrowing. “No way. You’re lying.”
“I swear.”
Dozens of episodes of a bridal reality show were queued up in my history. Brides, lace, and emotional breakdowns over hemlines.
“Why?” she whispered.
“I don’t know. I think it reminds me of mom,” I said, the honesty sticking in my throat. I waited for her to mock me, but she didn't. She just watched me with an expression that felt too much like pity. I needed to break it.
“Big, bad Elliott James—a sucker for happily ever afters?”
“Shut up, Ness.” I threw a kernel at her. She missed it. I threw another.
“Oh, this is gold,” she laughed, her eyes lighting up. “I’m going to torture you with this. A new chapter in our saga.”
“You’d better not, psychopath.”
I reached out and started tickling her—under her arms, the sensitive skin behind her knees. She thrashed and shrieked, tears of laughter streaking her face. “Okay! YOU WIN!”
I crawled up, pinning her wrists against the pillows. For a second, the laughter died. I was inches from her face, and the air in the room suddenly felt too thin to breathe. I felt her heart hammering against my chest. My eyes flicked to her lips—just once—and the realization of where I was hit me like a physical blow.
I rolled off her, retreating to my side of the bed as the next episode started. We watched two more in a heavy, charged silence until her breathing eventually evened out.
She fell asleep with the TV still flickering, her face finally losing the sharp edge of the armor she wore when she was awake. I stayed there for a long while, watching the steady rise and fall of her shoulders. Something had been bothering me—a hitch in her step she thought I didn't see, the way she’d adjusted her position a dozen times tonight as if she couldn't get comfortable.
She’d been doing her best to hide that knee from me since the first time I’d caught her limping, pulling her hem down or shifting behind her chair whenever I looked too closely. It was a silent game of redirection, and I’d let her play it because I wasn't sure I was ready for the answer.
But now, in the quiet of the room, the curiosity felt like a lead weight in my gut.
I needed to see. Not because I wanted to pry, but because the version of the story I’d told myself for years—the one where she was the villain in my story—was starting to feel like a lie.
With a hand that wasn't entirely steady, I carefully peeled back the edge of the duvet. The sight of it hit me harder than I expected. Her pajama shorts were hiked up, revealing the leg I tried so hard not to think about. I reached out, my fingers hovering an inch above the skin, afraid that even the air from my hand might hurt her. The scarring was extensive—a jagged, silvery roadmap that I hadn't realized was so long, or so deep. I found myself imagining the trauma that had left such a mark, the shattered pieces I’d never bothered to know about.
