But I picture her, pulled tight around herself, eyes on the ceiling while she talks to me, and something sharp twists in my chest. Not sympathy. Hunger for what her words could do. She exhales, the sound curling down the line like smoke. “If you’re painting, Carrington, I want to see it when it’s finished.”
I don’t tell her it’s not a painting. It’s an autopsy.
Two days later, we meet at a corner table in The Copper Petal—not a dive, but a sleek bar where the air smells faintly of oak and smoke. Always neutral ground, public enough to keep the conversation in check. She’s already there when I arrive, leaning back in her chair with a glass of red in hand, her red-bottom heels crossed elegantly.
The diary is in my bag, its pages dog-eared and underlined, certain entries still clinging to me like smoke.
“You’ve been busy,” she says when I slide into the seat across from her.
“This is the week he told me he was stuck in meetings with the athletic director. You said you were here with him.” Her eyes flick to the card I sat in front of her, then back to me, a faint curve tugging at her mouth. “I remember the night. The way he kept checking his phone, even when I was sitting right in front of him. Guess I know why now.”
I let her have the last word, though my eyes don’t leave hers.
“Tell me everything,” I say.
She leans forward, voice low, recounting the night with a precision that leaves no room for doubt. I jot a single note in small, deliberate handwriting, not because I’ll forget, but because I want her to see me writing it down.
When she finishes, I slide the card back into my bag alongside the diary. “We’ll need more like this.”
I stand to leave, grabbing my bag off the back of the chair. She doesn’t move right away, just tips back the last of her wine before rising. She tips her glass toward me, the red catching the low light. “Then I’ll make sure the next one’s worth you coming back.”
When she stands, she sweeps her hair over one shoulder to free the strap of her bag. My gaze lifts without thinking. The light catches in it, warm against the darker room, and I look away before she can see me watching.
Outside, the night air is cooler than I expected. Good. It’ll keep my head clear.
At home, I drop my bag on the kitchen counter and pull the diary free. I flip to the entry we discussed tonight and rewrite it on a fresh index card, stripping away her flourishes until it’s nothing but the bare coordinates of a lie.
I keep going to April 18th—a charity gala, black tie, his hand on her back in every photo. April 30th—supposed to be inRichmond. She writes about a hotel in Norfolk, a bottle of wine, and a fight that ended in silence. September 19th—an away game that never happened.
Each card is a cut. Not deep enough on its own to kill, but stacked together, they will bleed him out. By the time I’m done, there’s a new stack wrapped tight with twine, tucked into the false bottom of my jewelry box—a quiet arsenal.
When the day comes, I want to reach for them and know the ending is already written.
Donovan
The whistle shrieks across the field, cutting through the late-afternoon heat. My players scatter toward the water coolers, all red faces and sweaty hair under their helmets. I check my watch; it's still ten minutes before I have to send them home. Long enough to run the drill again if I want to push it.
I should. We’re three weeks out from the first game, and the defensive line still moves like they’re waiting for permission to breathe. But my phone buzzes in my pocket, and my focus breaks before I can bark the order.
It’s a message from the athletic director about the weekend schedule. For a split second, I think it might be Stella, even though I know better. We haven’t spoken since… everything.
The papers are still sitting on my kitchen table, two neat stacks, clipped together, waiting for signatures neither of us has put down. I told myself I’d deal with them last night. I told myself I’d deal with a lot of things.
I shove the phone back in my pocket, clap my hands, and call the team in. “One more run, then you’re done.”
They groan, but they line up. They always do.
The sun’s gone by the time I lock up the locker room. The stadium lights hum against the dark, moths throwing themselves at the glow like they’ve got something to prove. My shoulder aches, not from practice, just the kind of ache that’s been settling in lately and never quite leaves.
The drive home is short. Too short. The kitchen greets me with the low hum of the fridge and the sight of those papers still sitting dead center on the table. The pen I left beside them this morning hasn’t moved.
I drop my keys, toe off my shoes, and just stand there for a moment. I could sign them now. Make it final. Instead, I step around them, head for the fridge, and pull out a beer. I am not ready for the finality of losing Stella.
There’s mail stacked on the counter—a credit card offer, a flyer for a charity gala in Richmond next spring. I toss the first two aside, but the gala card sticks in my hand a second longer—the Hollow’s logo glints in gold at the bottom. I’ve been there before, when it all started.
The place is too quiet without her voice. I tell myself that it's a relief, but it’s just another lie I tell.
I drop into the chair at the head of the table, the divorce papers staring back at me. My phone sits beside them, its screen lighting up with a notification from a group chat I haven’t looked at in weeks. I swipe it away and, without meaning to, open her contact.
