And yet, I already know.
She’s telling him the crows are back again.
Jessica doesn’t like my crows. Thinks they’re creepy. I’ve picked up on that much. Then again, she doesn’t like anything that doesn’t fit into her picture-perfect Barbie Dreamhouse fantasy, which she loves to pretend my house is.
She’s obsessed with decorating for the seasons, scattering candles, arranging fresh flowers, always chasing the perfect shot, the perfect aesthetic. And in doing so, she’s erased everything that ever mattered to me about this house.
My grandmother’s paintings? Gone. The antique furniture, creaky with age and memory? Replaced. The tiny imperfections,the lived-in warmth, the echoes of a life that was mine—wiped away. In their place, pristine, color-coordinated vases and sterile white rugs. Expensive furniture that looks impressive but feels hollow.
Just like him. They suit each other.
But I can’t even blame her—not really. Knowing my ex-husband, he probably told her this house was his from the start, never mentioning it came with his dead ex-wife’s inheritance. Wouldn’t surprise me if he spun some elaborate lie—said the paintings were just placeholders, the antique furniture nothing more than unfortunate leftovers he hadn’t had the heart to toss yet.
He’s good at that—twisting history into something more convenient.
He’s good at a lot of things, actually—except for being a decent person. That, he sucks at.Tremendously.
I watch now as his brows pull together slightly, that familiar look settling on his face—thecaretakerone. The one he only ever shows to her and his friends, never to strangers.
He pushes up from his desk and walks to the window, staring out at the willow tree again. He sees the crows, and there it is—my dead heart wakes up in my chest. Because this time, he’s bound to react, isn’t he? Anyone would.
I straighten instinctively, my pale fingers gripping the bark. The sensation is faint, almost nonexistent—like I'm not really touching anything—but that doesn’t matter. I guess I’m still a little hell-bent on feeling human now and then. And judging by the way this blackened organ inside me is hoping for some sign from him, I almost feel like one.Almost.
“Come on,” I murmur quietly to myself.
I just need something. It doesn’t have to be much. A twitch of his brow, a flicker of hesitation, a moment where he freezes, unsure of what to say or do—that would be enough. Just a splitsecond of doubt. Proof that there’s something, anything, going on inside him.
But no.
When my ex-husband sees my crows again—just like he has nearly every day since he killed me—he blinks.
One. Slow. Thoughtful. Blink.
And then he turns away.
No hitch in his breath. No hesitation in his step. No flicker of doubt in those calculating eyes.Nothing.
Something dark coils in my chest—something old and bitter and so goddamn tired.
He murdered me, for fuck’s sake. Buried me right here, beneath this willow tree, right after he crushed my throat with his bare hands. He pressed down until the world blurred, until I was nothing but clawing fingers and fading light. Until silence swallowed me whole.
And after all that—after my body grew cold beneath the roots of my lovely willow tree—he still feels nothing.
No guilt. No weight of consequence. Not even a ghost of hesitation.
My fingers dig into the bark, breathless fury twisting through me. The crows stir above. They feel it too—the storm in me, the hunger.
I need to make him pay.
One way or another, I will carve regret into his soul so deep he’ll never claw it out.
As if on cue, one of my crows lets out a slow, deliberate caw. Then another. And another. Before long, they’re all shrieking into the morning light.
Jessica flinches, startled. Her delicate fingers clutch the silk at her chest, and for a split second—just a fraction of a moment—I see in her the thing I wanted to see in him. Fear. She doesn’t even know why she’s afraid, but she is. She can’t escape it.
Of course, it’s stupid. The crows have never hurt her. They’ve never done anything but follow me, and watch the living. But still, she’s scared. Her throat bobs, and she inches closer to him, seeking some word, some touch, some reassurance.
And he gives it to her.
