This is it. We’re done.
My brother’s gone. Rafael’s gone.
I am completely alone, again.
I bury my face in my hands. Tonight was the end. I’ll never feel his touch again, or hear him say my name. We’ll never share another moment like that.
It’s the right thing to do. Ithasto be.
So why does it feel like the worst mistake?
the aftermath[trope]
the chaotic whirlwind that follows a breakup, where our protagonists navigate the emotional fallout like a pair of lost puppies in a thunderstorm, and possibly with a new haircut
It’s been five days since Rafael and I said our goodbyes. Five days of silence, of waking up to an empty bed, of going through the motions, feeling nothing at all.
The trial was postponed to Friday, which is good, because Ethan won’t answer my calls—or anybody’s, really. Jace tells me he’s okay, that he just needs time. How much time? No idea.
I sit curled up on the couch, the remnants of a cold cup of coffee on the table beside me. The TV is on, but I’m not watching it—just another noise to fill the quiet.
A soft thump draws my attention, and I turn to see Sherlock padding down the stairs, his tail flicking lazily behind him. I purse my lips, annoyed at his indifference after having been gone all nightand day. He hops onto the couch, his tiny weight settling against my side as he curls up, purring softly.
“You know this isn’t a hotel, right?” I murmur, scratching behind his ears. “I haven’t seen you since yesterday.”
He blinks at me, his yellow eyes unbothered, as if to say,I have my own life, thank you very much.
When I touch his collar, I find myself holding the tracking device Rafael gave me. Reminded about the camera, I reach for my phone, saying, “I think it’s finally time we find out where the hell you’re escaping from.”
I open the app, a small pang of pain hitting me at the thought of Rafael, who helped me set it up. The screen lights up, showing a dotted line that crosses the town. My brow furrows as I zoom in.
“What the hell, Sherlock?” I scold half-heartedly.
The map shows him wandering near Rafael’s house earlier today before heading back to mine. A flicker of something—morbid curiosity, maybe—makes me tap the camera icon. It takes a second to load, the grainy image jiggling, but when the video clears, I see the familiar exterior of Rafael’s house.
My chest tightens as I catch a brief glimpse of movement—Rafael, standing on his porch, talking to someone I can’t see. His hands are stuffed into his pockets, his head tilted slightly as he listens. He looks… normal. Like nothing has happened. Like he’s fine.
I slam the phone down onto the cushion beside me, the image burned into my mind.
I can’t believe Sherlock recorded him. What else did he catch?
I unlock my phone again and continue playing the feed. I swipe back to earlier in the day, setting the speed to 2x. The shaky imagebounces with each of Sherlock’s steps, and I can only make out snippets of the neighborhood.
There seems to be nothing relevant, except yet another visit to Sherlock’s dog lover, so I go even further back, catching more than one feline fight, several people trying to approach him, and a few familiar faces—until the camera shows the view through my kitchen window, looking out at Mrs. Prattle’s house across the street. I can see Sherlock’s reflection, perched on the windowsill, his tail curling as he observes the quiet neighborhood.
The camera shakes, as if something caught Sherlock’s attention, and it picks up a figure moving across Mrs. Prattle’s yard.
I pause the footage, staring at the screen. The figure is bent down, fiddling with something on the ground. When they stand and walk away, the camera catches it clearly: a broken gnome lying in the grass.
My heart pounds as I remember the police report. Vanessa knocked over the garden gnome when she went back to the crime scene.
The timestamp on the footage matches the report, twelve days ago.
The figure turns around just long enough for the grainy image to offer a hint of their identity. But it’s not Vanessa. It’s a man wearing a hoodie pulled low over his face. Even with the poor quality, I recognize the walk, the slight hunch in his shoulders, the way his right foot turns out slightly with every step.
Quentin.
I rewind the footage. Watching again, frame by frame, it’s unmistakable. It’s him, coming out of Mrs. Prattle’s house, of a sealed crime scene.
