I almost ignored it. I didn’t have the strength to talk to anyone, to explain anything. But the phone buzzed a second time… then a third. Persistent. Worried. So I finally answered.
My voice came out barely there. “Hey.”
“Aurelia?” Theo’s usual dramatic flair was gone. Replaced by tight, quiet worry I’d rarely heard from him. “Sweetheart, whereareyou? Susan just called me. She said you told her you’re off the project. You’re not working on the island anymore. What the hell happened?”
My chest tightened. “I… I just needed to leave.”
“Aurelia…” His tone softened, the worry cracking through. “Did someone hurt you? Did something happen over there? Because Susan sounded freaked out, and you disappearing without a word? That’s not just burnout-level drama. That’s… something else.”
I swallowed hard, staring at the faded floral wallpaper of my childhood room. “I can’t talk about it right now, Theo,” I whispered. “I just… I had to get out.”
He exhaled shakily. “Okay. Okay, babe. I’m not pushing. But you scared us. Just… tell me you’re safe.”
“I’m safe.”
He didn’t sound convinced, but he let it go. “Alright,” he murmured. “Eat something. Rest. Hug your mom. And when you’re ready call me. Yell, cry, whatever you need. Or we’ll fly to Milan and drink wine until we forget the word ‘architectural lighting.’ Your choice.”
A tiny, broken laugh escaped me. “Thank you.”
“And Aurelia?” His voice gentled even more. “People don’t leave projects like that over a bad critique. Something hurt you. Just… don’t shut me out.”
I hung up slowly, setting the phone beside me. The room felt too still again, but Theo’s voice lingered, like someone had cracked the window to let in a little air.
The days blurred, my world shrinking to the four walls of my room, the creak of the house, the murmur of my parents’ voices downstairs. I’d hear Mom’s soft prayers through the floorboards, Dad’s heavy steps pacing the kitchen, their worry a palpable weight. I wanted to be okay for them, to be the daughter who’d already survived, who’d rebuilt herself as an interior designer with a life in New York. But the warehouse had reopened every wound, and Keith’s connection to it was a fresh cut. I’d catch myself tracing the small scar on my wrist from the zip ties four years ago, a faint white line that burned with memory.
On a Sunday morning Mom knocked gently, her voice muffled through the door. “Aurelia, honey, we’re going to church for mass. Come with us? It’ll be good to get out, see some folks. You don’t have to talk, just... be with us.”
I sat up, rubbing my eyes, exhaustion heavy in my bones. Church meant people, questions, smiles I’d have to fake. But the hope in her voice, the way Dad’s silhouette loomed behind her when I cracked the door, made me nod. “Okay,” I said softly, my voice rusty from disuse. “Give me a few minutes.”
I dressed mechanically looking like someone who’d been running from her own shadow, and maybe I was. Downstairs, Mom and Dad waited, their smiles cautious but warm, Mom adjusting her scarf, Dad in his old corduroy jacket. “You look nice, kiddo,” hesaid, his voice gruff but kind, and I managed a small smile, the first in days.
The walk to St. Michael’s Church was short, Galena’s streets quiet under a gray sky. The church was a modest brick building. Inside, the pews were half-full, familiar faces turning to nod or whisper greetings. The organ played softly as we settled into a pew near the back. I knelt automatically, although I wasn’t the religious type, my hands clasped, but my prayers were scattered. Mom squeezed my hand, her warmth grounding me, and I focused on the hymns, the ritual, letting it wash over me like a tide.
After mass, the congregation spilled into the churchyard, the air buzzing with small talk. I stayed close to Mom, forcing smiles as neighbors asked how I was, how New York was treating me. “Fine,” I’d say, the word a reflex, my eyes scanning for an escape. Then Andrew appeared, weaving through the crowd with that easy grin I remembered from high school, his blond hair tousled, his green eyes bright with recognition. Everyone used to think we were dating back then, whispers in the halls, teasing glances but we’d just been friends, lab partners who’d bonded over bad chemistry puns.
“Aurelia Sterling,” he said, stopping in front of me, his voice warm with surprise. “Look at you. You’ve grown into something else. Almost didn’t recognize you. Beautiful as ever, though.” He grinned, hands in his jeans pockets, his flannel shirt rolled up to the elbows. “Haven’t seen you since college. What are you up to these days?”
I froze, my throat tightening, the instinct to shut down warring with the need to be polite. “I’m... an interior designer,” I said hesitantly, my voice quieter than I meant, my fingers twisting the strap of my purse. “In New York. Just visiting home for a bit.”
“No kidding? That’s awesome.” His enthusiasm was genuine, disarming, but my guard stayed up, memories of Boris’s charm making me wary of easy smiles. “You always had an eye for art. Designing fancy lofts for millionaires now?”
I managed a small laugh, the sound foreign to my ears. “Something like that.” The words felt hollow, images of Keith’s island flashing in my mind, white sands, turquoise waters, now tainted by his father’s shadow.
Andrew asked more about my work, New York, whether I missed Galena and I answered in short bursts, easing into the conversation despite myself, his familiarity a small comfort. When he offered to walk me home, I shook my head, the reflex automatic. “I’m with my parents,” I said, glancing at them nearby, chatting with the priest.
Mom overheard, turning with a smile that was too eager, her eyes hopeful. “Oh, nonsense, Aurelia. You and Andrew go ahead. We walked here anyway, and it’s a nice day. Catch up with your old friend.” Dad nodded, his expression encouraging, though I shot them a look, half plea, half frustration. They meant well, but the idea of being alone with anyone, even Andrew, made my skin prickle.
Still, I complied, falling into step beside him as Mom and Dad took the lead, their arms linked. The streets of Galena were quiet, the historic houses glowing in the late morning light, their porches adorned with pumpkins and autumn wreaths. Andrew kept the conversation light, high school memories, the time we’d botched a chemistry experiment and nearly set off the sprinklers, his new job at the local hardware store. I nodded, smiled, but my heart wasn’t in it, my thoughts drifting to the warehouse, to the gun in my hands. The unease lingered, a shadow I couldn’t outrun, even here.
As we turned onto our street, my parents a few yards ahead, my heart stopped, a jolt of electricity freezing me in place. Keith stood there, leaning against a car, a nondescript rental parked in front of my parents’ house. He was dressed unlike I’d ever seen him, casual in a way that felt wrong. Jeans, a gray Henley that hugged his broad chest, a leather jacket slung over one shoulder. His dark hair was tousled, his jaw shadowed with stubble. But it was his posture, leaned back, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the ground, that struck me. He looked... vulnerable, not the commanding billionaire or the terrifying predator from the warehouse, but a man carrying a weight that mirrored my own.
Our eyes met, and he straightened, his gaze locking onto mine, those blue-gray depths stormy with emotion, regret, longing, something unspoken. My breath caught, my heart torn between running to him and running away, the betrayal a fresh wound, the love a stubborn ache. Andrew’s voice faded, my parents’ footsteps a distant sound, the world narrowing to just us, the air between us crackling with everything unsaid.
Chapter 25
Keith
It hit me harder than the shots ever could, not the sound, but the meaning. When Boris gasped those words about my father, the world inside me tilted. Rage flared up, sharp and hot, but beneath it was something fouler. A hollow, sickening betrayal that knifed through any claim I’d ever had to innocence.
