I stare at the phone, the silence on the other end a hollow echo in my ear.
My chest is a tangle of contradictions—lighter for having shared my truth, yet heavier with a new, sharp worry for her. A wave of helplessness washes over me. She’s an ocean away, and the thought of not knowing when I’ll see her or my niece again is a sudden, sharp ache.
A mental note forms, sharp and clear:Call her back tomorrow. Don't let it go.
Trauma leaves instincts sharper than knives. And my instincts are screaming that the sound I heard wasn't clumsiness. It was violence.
The sun is sliding lower, casting the beach in bruised gold. I lift my eyes, searching instinctively for movement. The jogger is gone. Only shadows linger now, stretching long across the sand.
I wrap my arms around myself and retreat deeper into the porch, the ocean’s song behind me, my phone warm in my hand.
For the first time in years, I’ve taken a step towards my dream.
Just then, a single butterfly detaches itself from the shadows. A creature of impossible beauty and a surprising, unyielding will. Its fragilewings are a promise against the twilight. It stays for a moment, then vanishes into the dusk.
* * *
Leah
The air in the San Diego hotel suite is chilled to a precise, clinical cold I relish.
Twenty floors below, the city glitters like a handful of cheap jewels; up here there is only silence, glass, and the clean geometry of modern furniture.
I pour gin over ice. The cubes clink like shattering glass—small shards of sound—and watch the door. My anger is no longer a chaotic fire; it has cooled into something harder, sharper. A diamond forged in the pressure of humiliation.
Right on time, a soft knock.
I open the door to two men dressed in dark, unassuming suits. My father’s ghosts, the quiet instruments of his will, now mine to command. The older one, stone-faced with grey at his temples, nods once. The younger one’s eyes are empty, watchful. They are professionals, not thugs. Perfect.
“Come in,” I say, gesturing them toward the living area. They don’t sit. They wait, hands clasped, their stillness a testament to their efficiency.
I don’t waste time on pleasantries. I remain standing, a queen addressing her court.
“Target: Della Toma. Location: private beach house near Sunset Cliffs. She is staying with a friend.” I slide a tablet across the marble coffee table, displaying a picture of Della and a map with a photo of the house Julian sent. “Access from the beach side, tomorrow night. I want it to be clean. Undetectable.”
The older man studies the image on the screen.
“Desired outcome?”
“A tragedy.” I say, a cold smile on my lips. “A young woman, overwhelmed by grief, takes her own life. The cliffs at Sunset Cliffs Natural Park are notoriously beautiful and dangerously accessible. A fall. A note left behind. Neat, tidy, and utterly heartbreaking.”
His gaze remains neutral, but he nods in understanding.
“We handle the acquisition and the staging. The note?”
“I will take care of it,” I say, my voice dropping.
The younger man’s jaw tightens. “What about the friend?”
“Irrelevant. Keep her out of the way—quiet, contained, but breathing. I don’t need more noise than necessary.” My voice is effortless, the cruelty clinical.
“You secure the location and bring Della to the cliffs. You set the stage.”
I pause, letting the weight of my next words settle in the sterile air.
“But the final act is mine,” I say the words a soft, venomous promise. “I want her to know exactly who is removing her from the board.”
This is where the plan becomes truly mine.
