“You didn’t have to help.”
“I—I—I thought we, I thought you?—”
“You assumed things.”
“You let me assume things! You said?—”
“I didn’t say anything. I just didn’t correct your assumptions. You risked your job? That’s on you.”
“You fucking used me Shae—you made me a pawn?—”
“You allowed yourself to be one.” I smirk, crossing my arms. “I guess that makes you a simp.” I tilt my head. “A foolish, desperate little simp.”
His fists clench around the hammer and screwdriver he’s holding. His jaw tightens, working back and forth as his eyes flare with rage. “You?—”
I shrug, doing my best to push him to the edge of anger.
“What?” I laugh. “You didn’t really think there was a future for us, did you?”
His nostrils flare, his body tensing with something close to fury.
“Aw, God. You did!” I cover my mouth, stifling a laugh. “You poor thing.”
The hand holding the hammer twitches. And for the first time I realize I might be in trouble. He holds the hammer and screwdriver in one hand. Easy weapons if he wanted to bludgeon me because I pushed him too far. A crime of passion is how the headlines would spin it.
Fear climbs in my throat as his gaze turns cold. I can almost see the plan materialize in his eyes. His love for me slips away, replaced with a hatred so deep I can feel it vibrating off of him.
In the next beat, he lunges for me—empty hand out, wild, trying to grab my arm, my throat, my narrative—his other in a state of recoil, preparing to land the final hammer blow to my skull.
I step aside just before he reaches me.
His momentum carries him into the iron door. The hinge gives with a sound like a cough. The door swings—and Declan goes with it.
For a second there’s only wind. Then a distant impact I don’t look for. The tower swallows the rest.
I scream. Not because I’m afraid. Because I know what people expect a victim to sound like.
Then I’m already running down the stairs, stumbling just enough to be believable, phone in my hand, voice cracking on command as I dial.
“Nine-one-one,” I sob. “He—he came after me. He fell. Please. Please.” I tell them to come to St. Mary’s on Placerita Canyon Road and then I hang up.
I step over his lifeless body on the garden path, overgrown rose bushes tearing at his skin like the convent itself is taking its tithe—thorn by thorn, quietly claiming what he came here to steal. Beads of crimson decorate his exposed flesh. He looks peaceful in death, somehow… beatific. Holy even. Like he’s just met God face-to-face.
I smile, make a quick sign of the cross on my chest, and walk back to the house on patient steps. I move to the bottle of wine on the counter, pouring the last of it into my stemless glass, and then stand at the kitchen window as I wait for first responders to arrive. My reflection is dark and calm. The bell tower behind me rises like a black finger against the sky, and the wind slips through the old slats until the bell gives one thin, accidental ring—like a wink only I can hear.
That should terrify me.
Instead, I smile.
The kitchen lights hum softly as I hear the slow crescendo of ambulance sirens in the distance. Outside, a car passes. Somewhere, a phone buzzes. Somewhere else, a story is already changing hands.
I practice my face in the window glass—shocked, shaken, grateful to be alive.
I file Declan in thehandledfolder of my mind.
Tomorrow is a new day.
And hope springs eternal.
