The phone lay on the floor, screen still lit. As I watched through tears as another message appeared.
Unknown Number
We have unfinished business.
The scream that had been trapped in my throat finally broke free, a soundless shriek of pure terror.
The monster wasn't just a memory.
He was a text message in the dark.
And I needed to figure out how he was able to reach me.
11.Jack
The whiskey in my glass was a twelve-year-old single malt, smooth as polished stone. It did nothing to burn away the confession stuck in my throat.
James sat across from me in the quiet, wood-paneled bar, watching me with the patient, knowing gaze of a man who'd seen me at my worst. His detective eyes scanned my face. "Something's different." He set down his beer. "You're not wound as tight. Your eyes aren’t frantic. You almost smiled when you walked in." It wasn’t an accusation. "What happened?"
I swirled the amber liquid, watching it cling to the sides of the glass. "Things with Daisy… they're better. She's speaking more. Not just to Anna, but to me. Small sentences. Requests. She laughed with me yesterday. A real laugh."
James smiled, genuine warmth in his expression. "That's incredible, Jack. Truly. I know how hard you've?—"
"It's not me," I interrupted, the words bitter and true. "It's her. Anna."
James's smile faded, replaced by careful neutrality. He took a slow sip of his beer. "Go on."
How did I explain the seismic shift inside my own fortress? "The house… it doesn't feel like a museum anymore. There's noise. Not a loud noise. The sound of someone reading with silly voices. The smell of something other than takeout cooking. Daisy's drawings aren't just on the fridge; they're everywhere." I dragged a hand through my hair. "The foundation. Margaret says attendance is up. Donations are trickling in. Anna convinced the owner of that bookstore on Elm to sponsor a reading corner. She talks about Elena's vision with a reverence that…" I trailed off. "She's breathing life back into the house."
I paused, swallowing hard. "And I hate that I'm grateful for it. I hate that I've started looking forward to hearing her voice in the hallway. I hate that the house feels wrong on the days she's not there."
James was silent for a long moment. "And how do you feel about that?"
The direct question was a trapdoor opening beneath me. I stared into my whiskey, searching for the right words. "Grateful. Obviously. For Daisy's progress." I took a bittersweet swallow. "But it's more than that. It has become comfortable. Her presence. We have dinner. She stays after Daisy's asleep. We workin my office. In silence, but it's a different kind of silence."
I looked up, meeting his inspecting stare. "I know what I should feel. Rage. A need for retribution. But that's fading. And in its place is something else. Something complicated." I hesitated. "I find myself watching her. Not on a monitor. Not to catch her in a lie. Just watching. The way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she concentrates. The way her voice goes soft and sure when she's explaining something to Daisy. The competence with which she's taken on the foundation, as if it's a sacred duty."
I paused, trying to find words for my feelings.
"Last night, she fell asleep on the couch while Daisy was drawing. And I just sat there. In the chair across from her. Watching her sleep. For twenty minutes." I looked away and stared at the half-empty whiskey glass. "That's not normal, is it? That's not just gratitude."
I set the glass down with a decisive tap. "James, I think I have feelings for her."
We both were silent for a moment, even I couldn’t process those words. James went very still, his beer halfway to his mouth. Then he set it down slowly, deliberately, and leaned back in his chair. His expression was a mixture of deep concern and profound unsurprise.
"Jack." He said my name like a warning. Like a prayer. "Seven weeks ago, you were one step away from ruining that woman’s life. You brought her into yourhome as part of a revenge plot you only abandoned because Daisy spoke."
"I know," I snapped, the old defensiveness flaring. "I'm telling you what is happening now. What I’m feeling. And I don't know what the hell to do with it."
"Are you sure?" James pressed, leaning forward. "Are you sure these feelings are for Anna? Or are they for what she represents? She's filling the empty spaces, Jack. She's warming the house, making Daisy smile, tending to Elena's garden. It's easy to confuse gratitude for the warmth with feelings for the person who lit the fire."
His words were a bucket of cold reason. "It's not just gratitude," I insisted, but even to my own ears, it sounded weak. “But I can’t let it go farther than this; it won’t be fair to Elena.”
"Then let's try a different angle," James said, his tone gentler. "What would Elena want?"
The question was a gut punch, stealing my breath. My first instinct was to lash out, to tell him he had no right to invoke her name. But he did. He'd known her. Both he and his wife did.
My first, instinctive answer was protection. "She'd want justice. For the person who was there and did nothing."
