But strangulation? That wasn’t an accident. It was deliberate.
The questions came rushing in, too fast to catch. If the boy had been strangled, who did it? Did the husband do it before he was shot? Did he manage to get the gun in an attempt to save himself?
Or was there something deeper buried in this silence?
My chest tightened as I sank back onto the couch. My mind spun in a thousand directions, piecing together fragments that no longer fit.
I scanned through the report further, but half of it was missing—there were notes about the scene, the paramedics’ statements, and police observations, but no mention of a child fumbling with a gun.
Just cold, unemotional facts that clashed violently with the story the article painted.
I swallowed hard and closed my laptop. The room was too quiet, too small. The story I’d been told unraveled beneath me, and I was standing on the edge of something darker than I’d imagined. The truth was still out there, hiding in plain sight.
And I was nowhere close to finding it. Even as I said it all aloud, none of it made sense.
My phone buzzed on the counter, and I walked over to grab it.
SAWYER
Hey, are you still planning to come tomorrow? I got your ticket if you do.
I’ll be there.
Okay, see you there.
FORTY-SEVEN
Ellie
I didn't wakeup buzzing with energy or playing out some fantasy of what this day could mean like Sawyer probably was. I wasn't in a glam chair or surrounded by a team of stylists prepping me for cameras.
I wanted it to be me, especially since I was unsure where Sawyer and I stood and still hoping that showing up might mean something to him. Maybe it would be a step in the right direction toward whatever the hell we were doing.
He hadn't texted or said anything about the song, and that had me on edge in a way I didn't want to admit.
I pulled on jeans and a blue sweater and layered a puffy coat over them. I twisted my hair back into something that could pass for intentional. Mascara, a little color in my cheeks—just enough to feel like myself.
My phone buzzed against the kitchen counter.
BEN
Pulling up.
I stepped onto the sidewalk, and Ben stood beside the back door of the SUV, steady as always.
“Ellie,” he said with a nod.
“Hey, Ben.” I climbed in, grateful for the familiar ritual of it.
The door shut with a soft click. We pulled away from my house, and my neighborhood disappeared through the tinted windows. The hum of tires filled the silence.
“You doing okay?” he asked, glancing at me in the rear-view mirror.
“Yeah,” I said then paused. We both knew that wasn't entirely true. “Just nervous, I guess.”
He nodded once. No follow-up, no small talk, just acknowledgment, which was exactly what I needed.
I turned my attention to the window. San Francisco was alive in a way that made my chest tight. Sunlight pushed through the clouds, and everywhere I looked, people wore blue jerseys. The closer we got to the stadium, the more electric it felt: flags waving from balconies, horns honking in a chaotic symphony, strangers high-fiving at crosswalks. Today, they were family.
