I squeeze my hands until they ache, trying to steady my breathing. But the image won’t leave me—Alexander’s face that night. Cold. Detached.
Dear lord… I’m a witness to a murder. I force myself to glance at Tyler, who’s still muttering at the screen, anger lining his voice.
I drum my fingers sharply against the counter to get his attention, then sign: “Who was he?”
Tyler turns, eyes shadowed, “some rich asshole who sexually assaulted a girl — beat her up, too. But he got off with probation because there wasn’t enough evidence to send him to prison.” Then he scoffs, shaking his head. “I’m glad he’s dead. The world’s better off without him.”
I nod automatically, but my head is spinning.
The words Tyler just said coil in my chest like poison.
Did Alexander know what the man had done? Did he kill him because of that? Or was it something else entirely? Was the victim somehow connected to him? Family? Business?
I rub my arms, trying to shake off the unease crawling up my spine, but it clings like static. I don’t know what to believe. A part of me wants to trust that Alex isn’t capable of murder. But another part—
I remember his eyes that night.
Unforgiving.
Deadly.
I swallow hard. My throat feels raw as I yank open the fridge and grab a water bottle. I gulp it down too quickly, coughing as it burns its way down. Anything to drown out his face in my head. Anything to stop thinking about him.
“Someone’s knocking,” Tyler signs
I frown, confused. We weren’t expecting anyone. Dragging my feet to the door, I open it halfway and my brows dip.
A woman stands there. She looks maybe in her twenties, hair styled neatly in bangs, her outfit sharp but casual—too polished to be a stranger just passing through.
“Hello, Lucas.”
I blink at her, watching her lips carefully, making sure I read them right.
“My name is Ashley.”
Ashley.
Then her following words land like a stone dropped in water, rippling through me until everything inside feels unsteady.
“I’m Alexander Petrov’s assistant.”
I just…stare. The words stick in my head like broken glass. I can’t seem to line them up into something that makes sense.
My stomach twists hard.
She’s who again?
My grip on the door tightens until my knuckles ache. I replay the movement of her lips in my mind over and over, desperate to catch some mistake. Maybe I read her wrong. Maybe she said something else. But no. I didn’t get it wrong.
Ashley doesn’t wait for me to catch up. She checks her watch with a polite efficiency that makes me feel small, like I’m already on someone else’s schedule.
“I’m here to take you to the audiology clinic,” she says, her smile calm and professional.
The words don’t register at first.
I frown. Confusion, dread, and something I can’t name pile up inside me.
“Mr Alexander booked an appointment,” she continues smoothly, “for you to get checked out—and to replace your hearing aids. We should be there by ten.”
