I watched the squad car disappear around the corner, the blare of the sirens fading into the distance. It was over—the threat, the lies, the confrontation—all distilled into the receding pulse of police lights.
"Agent Thomas?" The first officer handed back my phone, his expression unreadable. “I managed to copy the recording onto my computer.”
"Call me Eva Rae," I corrected, reclaiming the device, its surface now oddly warm against my palm.
"Sure thing… Eva Rae." He offered a tight smile. "Get some rest. We'll be in touch."
"Rest," I echoed, knowing sleep would elude me, chased away by the shadows of what had transpired.
The officers left, their departure as brisk as their entrance, leaving me alone with the silence of the Airbnb, the memory of violence still clinging to the walls.
I sank into the worn armchair, the clamor of my heartbeat loud in my ears. The detective's confession reverberated through the hollows of my mind, each word a heavy stone in the fabric of the case. Carol's face flickered behind my eyelids—her life, her secrets, all buried under his ambition.
"Damn it," I muttered, rubbing my temples. My fingers trembled, betraying the adrenaline still coursing through me. I needed to calm down, to rest. But first, I had to let him know, let Matt know I was safe.
The phone felt alien in my hand as I dialed, the screen's glow glaring against the darkening room. One ring. Two. Then Matt's voice, a steady anchor in the chaos.
"Matt, it's me," I said, voice thick, a tear betraying my composure.
"Eva Rae? What's wrong?" His concern pierced through the line, immediate and sharp.
"I caught the detective," I managed to say. "But not until after he attacked me. He confessed to everything, though, so that’s good."
"Jesus, Eva Rae…." He paused, the weight of his exhale traveling the distance between us. "Are you hurt?"
"Shaken. Not broken." A half-truth; my soul felt cracked at the edges.
"Thank God. I worry about you, you know that?" His voice softened, a balm to the night's violence.
"I’m coming home," I whispered, the words a promise, a plea for normalcy. "Tomorrow, as soon as I wake up."
"Good," he said, relief evident. "We all miss you. You've been gone too long."
"Miss you, too," I confessed, a sob catching in my throat.
"Stay safe tonight," he added. "Please."
"Always," I assured him, though we both knew the promise was as fragile as the silence around me.
Closing the call, I sat motionless, gathering the shards of courage scattered by the night's revelations. Tomorrow, I'd leave this place. For now, I held onto the threads of home, weaving them into armor against the darkness.
Chapter 26
THEN:
Laughter bubbledthrough the dining room of the elegant, candlelit home. Angela Jennings, with her bright blue eyes dancing merrily, shared a light-hearted story about their youngest's latest escapade in finger painting. The gathered friends, a medley of old college companions and newer acquaintances from the children's school, leaned in, captivated by her animated recounting.
"Pure Picasso," Angela concluded, her voice soft yet filled with mirth, eliciting a round of chuckles.
"Though I fear our walls are her preferred canvas," Will added, his warm tone carrying across the table, drawing a collective laugh.
"Thankfully, washable paints were invented," a friend interjected, raising his glass in mock toast.
Angela's gaze drifted, catching Will as he turned toward the woman beside him, a single woman new to their social circle. His hand lightly brushed hers as he passed the salt, their shoulders inching closer in the cozy atmosphere. Laughter spilled from hislips again, this time in a more intimate timbre, paired with a glance that lingered too long for Angela’s comfort.
"Isn't that right, Will?" one of the guests called out, pulling him back into the wider conversation.
"Absolutely," he responded, but his eyes flickered back to the woman with a familiarity that twisted Angela's stomach into knots.
