I freeze, brow lifting. “You… you were with them?”
“I never wanted to be. I kept telling William something was off about her, but he didn’t listen. He made me spend time with her so I’d finally see how good she really is. It only made me more concerned.” His finger points to a puddle in one photo. “If you look closely, you can see my sour face. Pure torture.”
I swallow, forcing the next question past the tightness in my throat. “But why was William so determined to prove she’s not what she seems? What did he see in her?”
“It’s complicated.” I narrow my eyes at him, silent pressure mounting, and he exhales heavily. “She was giving up on school—grades falling fast. Her mother came, begged teachers for help, but everyone stepped back. William… he extended a hand.”
“So he helped her outside of class?”
“She’d come to our home. He became her mentor. I had my own work, my life, but sometimes I was there when she visited. She made it clear she didn’t like me right away.”
I pause, staring at the picture of Estella curled in a checkered blanket on the couch, a mug cradled in her hands, marshmallows floating atop what I assume is hot cocoa.
“How did she make it clear?” I ask, my gaze never leaving the photo.
“She kept glancing at me with contempt. Rolled her eyes whenever I walked in on them.”
Shock stretches my eyes wide, while fury coils within me. I freeze in place, my nostrils flaring as the thick anger rises. “Walked in on them?”
“Not like that,” he protests weakly before slapping a hand to his forehead and leaning against it, appearing drained by the weight of the conversation. “William had a special approach. He didn’t just want to teach her—he wanted to reach her, to connect. To be the one person she could trust in a sea of those who didn’t understand her.”
“And it worked,” I state, the tension in my chest tightening further.
“It did. Once, I eavesdropped on the conversations they were having. She said her house was always cold, that she didn’t want to go back, so William… he paid special attention. Used to make her a cup of tea, cocoa, or coffee, then they’d sit, talking, until it slowly drifted into their studies.”
“He was kind to her,” I whisper, testing the words on my tongue with a flicker of unease. I feel it—the unspoken, the invisible weight of all he leaves unsaid—and I cling to the hope that this man will bridge the gaps, keeping me from jumping to conclusions.
“He was. Too kind,” he admits, eyes darting nervously around the apartment, never settling, like he’s afraid of something lurking in the corners. “But it got ugly with time. So ugly that—” He swallows hard, the words catching in his throat. “You know what happened.”
“Did you notice something? A change in her behavior? Before everything went wrong, there must have been signs.”
“Oh, there were,” he laughs, a hollow smile twisting his face. “You know what’s interesting? Those outside Gravemoor think William ended his life because of the death of his daughter. But that wasn’t the whole story.”
I lock my gaze on him, absorbing every word, every subtle tremor in his voice.
“His wife, Amelia, was incredibly sick. Chained to the bed, wasting away while some disease devoured her. The doctors couldn’t name it. We spent everything we had bringing in specialists, the best of the best, and even they couldn’t save her.”
He lets his gaze fall, and the lines of pain carve themselves deep into his face.
“She was barely alive, but William wouldn’t give up. He loved her more than anything. Worked near her bed, ate with her, talked with her, even when she couldn’t respond. And then, Iris entered their lives. Not long after, Amelia died.”
A heavy pause hangs in the air, and a faint chill snakes up my spine, prickling along each vertebra. “You think Iris killed her?”
He wags a finger at me. “I don’t think. Iknow.” He tugs at the collar of his shirt as if it’s choking him, growing more uncomfortable with every second. “She was chained. Could barely move, couldn’t talk, couldn’t scream. But her heart was beating. That machine… the beeping was what kept us clinging to hope, the only thread that said she might survive.”
He throws his arms wide, the gesture almost frantic. “And then Iris comes in, and shortly after, she dies. How? Apparently, Amelia wanted to end it all and just reached for the main cable and pulled it from the socket. A person who could barely fucking move just pulls the plug.”
I narrow my eyes, a hurricane of thoughts ripping through my mind. I glance at the pictures again, at her vibrant, seeminglyinnocent face staring back at me. So full of life, yet holding secrets in plain sight.
She had been there so much with William, part of every moment. In each photo, she’s there—visiting, present, slipping herself into his life as much as he had slipped himself into hers.
Could she do it? Could she really kill his wife, finally setting her free from the slow decay, the relentless, torturous theft of life? It’s unimaginable—the weight of watching someone you love rot away piece by piece while death drags them closer, inch by painful inch.
Was she convinced she was being merciful, delivering liberation from pain? Or did the urge spring from somewhere far darker, a place no morality could touch?
“What was her relationship with his daughter?” I ask, my voice steady, though my thoughts churn violently.
“Olivia. Her name was Olivia,” he whispers, drifting into his own thoughts, and with every passing second, I feel my impatience sharpening, my recklessness rising. “William thought she was happy. He believed Iris and her were getting along. He wanted Olivia to have a good friend, someone who could help her cope with the grief.”
