I didn’t mention Kane.
Not because I was hiding anything.
Because whatever that was … felt like mine.
After we hung up, quiet settled again.
The kind filled with absence.
I sat there for a minute, phone still in my hand, staring at the blank screen as if it might suddenly offer clarity. Instead, it reflected my own tired face back at me—hair slightly windblown, eyes still shadowed with grief and lack of sleep.
Rose should have been here.
Curled in that armchair with a glass of wine, asking too many questions, teasing me about something stupid, telling me I worried too much.
Instead, I was alone in her Paris life, trying to piece together a version of my sister none of us had known.
The apartment felt different now that the morning’s adrenaline had worn off. Smaller. Heavier. Like the walls themselves were holding secrets.
I pushed myself off the sofa.
Sitting still wasn’t going to help.
If Rose had built something here—another life, another version of herself—then it was in this apartment. In drawers and closets and forgotten corners.
And I owed it to her to understand it.
I started in the bedroom.
Not out of strategy. Just instinct.
Her suitcase still sat half-open near the foot of the bed, clothes folded inside from what must have been her last trip. A neat stack of blouses. Work dresses. Practical heels.
Corporate trainer in Europe.
That was the story she’d told us.
I sat on the edge of the bed and opened the suitcase fully, sifting through what remained. Nothing shocking. Business attire. Toiletry bag. Chargers.
But tucked into the side pocket, folded small, was something that didn’t fit.
A silk scarf.
Not Rose’s usual style. Too soft. Too romantic. Deep navy patterned with tiny gold constellations.
And definitely not business.
I ran it through my fingers, imagining her buying it somewhere along the Seine, laughing, maybe with someone beside her.
Étienne Moreau?
The name still felt foreign in my mind.
I folded the scarf carefully and set it aside, then moved to the dresser.
The top drawer held jewelry—simple pieces she wore at home. Earrings. Watches. Rings. Nothing remarkable.
The second drawer held paperwork. Receipts. Business cards. Ticket stubs.
