From the kitchen came the clink of dishes, murmured voices. They were cleaning up after our disastrous dinner, pretending everything was normal. I stared at the dark fireplace, feeling the chill from across the room.
Behind me, floorboards creaked. Footsteps approached, measured and deliberate. I didn't turn around.
Kara entered first, her steps careful as if approaching a wounded animal. She shot me an apologetic look that I refused to acknowledge, turning my attentionto the kitten instead. The remote clicked in her hand, and the TV volume rose, filling the room with a weatherman's monotonous drone about high pressure systems moving east.
Ellie slipped in next, settling on the far end of the sofa. I caught her deliberately avoiding my gaze, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her shirt. Cam followed, perching on the sofa arm beside Ellie like a sentinel, shoulders hunched forward, legs crossed at the ankles. The air between us felt solid enough to touch.
When Alex appeared last, something in my chest tightened. She leaned against the kitchen doorframe, hands tucked into the pockets of the same jeans she'd worn at dinner. I looked up, and our eyes met across the room.
For a heartbeat, I didn't recognize her. The cold, dismissive agent from the kitchen argument had vanished. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, and tension pulled at the corners of her mouth. Something raw lived in her expression now, something I hadn't seen since our first meeting months ago, before I knew who she really was.
We formed a strange tableau—five women scattered across the living room like pieces on a chess board, separated by invisible boundaries. No one spoke. The weather report droned on, predicting sunshine for people who could walk freely under open skies.
I wondered how long we could maintain this frozen moment, each of us waiting for someone else to break first.
The television screen flashed red, and the kitten's purr vibrated against my fingers as I froze mid-stroke. A familiar alert sound cut through the weatherman's drone.
"Breaking news: Mark Robeson, Editor-in-Chief of the North Coast Globe, has been found dead in his Garden District home."
My brain stuttered over the words. Mark Robeson. Found dead.
"Robeson, who led the paper's investigative team for 23 years, was discovered by colleagues this morning when he failed to arrive for work. Police are investigating his death as a homicide."
I blinked at the screen. Mark Robeson was a common name. It had to be someone else.
The kitten kneaded my thigh, oblivious. I couldn't feel it anymore.
The image changed to Mark's headshot—the one he'd complained about for weeks because the photographer made him wear a tie. His salt-and-pepper hair was combed back, his smile practiced but genuine. The text beneath read: "Editor-in-Chief, 23 years of service."
My stomach dropped as if the floor had disappeared beneath me.
The broadcast cut to footage of Mark's craftsman bungalow. I recognized the green shutters he'd painted last spring, now illuminated by flashing police lights. Yellow crime scene tape fluttered across his front yard. A coroner's van waited in the driveway.
Detective Reilly appeared on screen, his face grim beneath the harsh camera lights. "I can confirm we're investigating Mr. Robeson's death as a homicide. At this time, we're exploring all possible connections to recent events, including the disappearance of journalist Sabine Barrett."
My name in his mouth felt wrong, distant, like he was talking about someone else.
"I cannot discuss specifics of the crime scene, but I want to be clear: if Ms. Barrett is watching this, she is in danger. Anyone with information about her whereabouts should contact the City Police immediately."
An off-camera reporter shouted, "Detective, was this connected to the Bellante investigation?"
Reilly turned away. "I can't comment on ongoing investigations. That's all for now."
The anchor's voice returned as Reilly walked off screen. "Mr. Robeson's death marks the third killing potentially linked to Ms. Barrett's explosive exposé of the Bellante crime family. The FBI has not commented on whether they believe these deaths are related."
The room tilted. My lungs refused to expand. Mark was dead. Mark was murdered. The third killing. After Alex’s cousin, Salvatore Bellante. After Isabella’s hairdresser, Gina. Now Mark.
Because of me.
The kitten squirmed beneath my frozen hands. I couldn't remember how to move. The broadcast ended, returning to a car commercial no one was watching. The silence in the room pressed against my ears until I thought they might bleed.
Then Alex spoke.
The broadcast cut to a car commercial, its cheerful jingle obscene in the silence. No one moved. I couldn't tear my eyes from the blank space where Mark's face had been moments before. The kitten shifted in my lap, tiny claws pricking through my jeans.
"They won't say it on TV," Alex said finally, her voice flat, "but I know what they found."
Everyone turned to her. Kara's face had hardened to granite, like she already knew. Ellie's hand flew to her mouth. Cam's jaw locked so tight I could see the muscle twitch beneath her skin.
