Cece meows as if to let me know she’s here. I scoop her up and hug her to my chest before crossing the room to the windows.
I fiddle with my emerald pendant and listen to the soft purrs of my cat.
Another reason this Thanksgiving feels heavy—it falls on November twenty-fourth this year.
Kian’s birthday.
Back home, I’d light a candle on a slice of cake and blow it out.
I hope he’s alive and happy, celebrating with his loved ones.
What happened to you, Kian?
That’s the thing about loss—it sneaks up on you when you least expect it. And when you have no closure? The ache never ends.
Wind beats against the glass pane, snow swirling in the air. Hollow Gardens is nearby. If only I could go out, I’d light the candle there, by our tree, our carving.
But I can’t, because the bastard won’t let me leave.
I picture Elias again, the terrifying man I now call my husband. He used to be a puzzle I wanted to solve because I thought there was more than meets the eye.
“Ew, numbers.” I peek over Kian’s shoulder, watching him scratch his pencil against paper.
It looks like a grid. Tic-tac-toe with numbers?
“Words are hard for me,” he says. He wraps his arm around me when I climb onto his lap. “But with numbers, we get along.”
“What’s this?”
He erases a number and writes another one in its place. “Sudoku. You need to add to nine.”
“Sounds boring. I’d rather read.”
Kian chuckles and kisses my hair. “Puzzles are like books, I think. There’s a mystery to solve. And mysteries are always worth solving.”
His words echo in my mind and I shake myself. Elias isn’t a puzzle.
He’s just mad.
I won’t let a madman ruin my day.
Determined, I stomp to my goodies, pick up the carrot cake, and head downstairs for a candle.
Minutes later, I round the corner toward the kitchen.
“Fuck!”
The crash of glass shattering cuts through the quiet.
Then a deep, delirious chuckle. Someone mutters under his breath.
Elias.
Glass clinks. Liquid sloshes.
I square my shoulders and step in, fully intending to ignore the man and grab my supplies.
But the sight stops me cold.
