He gestures at a piece of paper. I take it and read:
Upon reevaluation, toxicology screening detected trace amounts of digitalis (commonly found in foxglove). The concentration in the bloodstream suggests intentional ingestion. No prescribed medication or medical condition accounted for this.
“You okay?” he asks, his hand reaching for me but dropping before he can actually touch me.
Am Iokay? My mouth is filling with saliva quicker than I can swallow it, and cold sweat is accumulating over my lips. “I think I’ll go home now.”
“I’ll walk you.”
I study him for a long moment, seething at how damn good he looks right now. Angry that I can’t even enjoy it. Furious that some traitorous part of me still wants him to stay the night. And enraged that he did this to me.
I shake my head. “It’s okay,” I say coldly, slinging my bag over my shoulder. “I don’t need you to.”
“Scarlett…”
“What happens if the actual murderer shows up at the library tonight?” I ask, walking past him.
“Uh, there are a couple of officers stationed outside, but…” He glances at his watch. “I doubt anyone will show up.”
Why, though? How could the killer have known that tonight’s episode was just a ruse to catch them? Maybe they noticed the police. Goddamn it. How is the killer always one step ahead?
“Let me walk you home,” Rafael insists as he comes to my side.
With a glare, I rush to the entrance, then out the door. The air outside is cool against my flushed cheeks, but the ache in my chest doesn’t ease. Not even a little.
“Scarlett, wait.” His voice chases me down, sharper than the night air nipping at my skin.
My steps quicken, but so do his.
“I know you’re disappointed.” He’s by my side now, his breath fogging in the cold. “But I knew you weren’t guilty, Scarlett, and I had to prove it. That’s why I’m here, why I came to Willowbrook—not for that asshole who was my dad. You have to understand. Sometimes the police don’t care about the truth. They just want a neat story, a suspect who fits their narrative. And I knew it was just a matter of time before they connected the murders to the podcast. To you.”
And how didheknow to look into my podcast after he’d been gone for five years? Actually, forget about it. That’snotthe point.
“Not me, though,” he presses. “Iknewyou had nothing to do with this, and I’ve proven it. I’ll catch the real killer, and—”
I whirl around, my boots crunching against the gravel. “That’s not the problem!” I shout, my voice sharp in the otherwise silent neighborhood. “You told me, didn’t you? Since the beginning, you said you were here for the wrong reasons. You blamed it on Dave, Lucas, some stupidbet—but you told me. And you warned me you weretrouble.”
“That was…” Rafael’s shoulders slump, his face pale under the glow of the streetlamp. His hair hangs over his eyes, but not enough to hide his pained expression. “I couldn’t tell you,” he says quietly. “I didn’t want things between us to move forward until I did.”
“Uh-uh!” I raise a finger, a grimace twisting my lips. “You don’t get to talk. You don’t get to explain, or justify, or make this all better. You get to live with it. With the fact that you lied. That there will be nothing else. Not even a hello if we pass each other on the street. No Chinese food, no Macarena, no sleeping over.Nothing.” My voice shakes, but I force it out anyway. “That these are my last words to you.”
The silence is deafening. His gaze drops to the ground, his lips tightening into a grim line. It makes a dull ache settle in my chest—seeing him like this, knowing I’m responsible for his suffering.
But he deserves worse.
“You know, ifthisis the best version of yourself, then I’m sure my dad would agree with me when I say… I wish you hadn’t come back at all.”
He blinks, eyes watering, and immediately, I hate myself for saying that. Yes, I feel betrayed, but no one deserves the kind of hurt I see in his expression.
Before I can fold and apologize, I walk away with purposeful steps. My place is only a few feet away, but the distance feels endless. By the time I walk up onto the porch, my hands are trembling sobadly I nearly drop the keys, especially as the tears come hot and fast, blurring my vision.
I slam the door shut, the sound reverberating like the finality of everything I just said, and as I let the first sob out, the realization settles over me: this isn’t the only door closing.
No. I’m closing every door.
And this time, it’s for good.
the groveling[trope]
