The sound of the tray touching the floor outside my door barely registered. I should have felt something—gratitude, annoyance, anything—but there was only emptiness where emotions should have been.
Minutes passed. Maybe hours. Time had lost all meaning.
Eventually, I dragged myself from the bed and opened the door. The tray sat there, mocking me with its normalcy. Scrambled eggs, still steaming. Toast with butter melting into the surface. Coffee in a blue ceramic mug, the one I'd used yesterday morning when the world made sense.
I closed the door without taking it and returned to bed.
The television flickered in my memory. Mark's face on the screen. The news anchor's voice, clinical and detached: "Mr. Robeson's death marks the third killing potentially linked to Ms. Barrett's explosive exposé of the Bellante crime family." The camera panning over the crime scene. Alex’s voice. "They remove the right hand."
I pressed my palms against my eyes until stars exploded behind my eyelids. I had done this. My article. My investigation. My trust in Alex—in Dom. My fault. All of it, my fault.
I couldn't stay in the bedroom. Every corner was under the watchful eye of their cameras. I was haunted by memories of the four of us tangled together, of the violation of my every move being watched. I wandered down the hall until I found the library with its deep window seat and shelves of Isabella's books.
I picked up the thinnest volume, hoping the words might pull me away from myself. The pages fell open to something about birds and sky. I tried to focus, but the letters swam before my eyes, rearranging themselves into nonsense.
Heavy footsteps approached in the hallway. Cam. I recognized her walk now. She entered without knocking, a tray balanced in her large hands. She set it on the small table beside me without a word. Our eyes met briefly before I looked away. She left as silently as she'd arrived.
The tray held a sandwich cut into precise triangles, a bowl of tomato soup with a swirl of cream on top, and a tall glass of water with lemon. Someone had taken care with it. I lifted half the sandwich and took a small bite. The bread stuck in my throat. I couldn't swallow, couldn't eat. I wouldn't.
The afternoon sun shifted across the floor as I stared out at the swaying trees. The world kept turning while Mark lay cold. Birds flew. Clouds moved. And I sat trapped in this house with people who had watched me, lied to me. I couldn't leave because of the Bellantes. I couldn't stay because of the cameras, the lies.
The light faded from the library windows, but I didn't bother turning on the lamp. Darkness suited me better. The sandwich on my lunch tray had dried at the edges, the soup congealed into something unrecognizable. I traced patterns in the condensation on the untouched water glass.
A soft knock broke the silence. The door opened before I could pretend to be asleep.
Ellie stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the hall light, a new tray balanced in her hands. Her eyes fell to the untouched lunch, and her mouth tightened into a thin line.
"Sabine, you need to eat something." Her voice was gentle but firm.
I kept my gaze fixed on the darkness beyond the window, where trees swayed as black shapes against a blacker sky. My stomach had stopped growling hours ago.
"Please. Just... something small."
The silence stretched between us like a living thing. I could feel her waiting, hoping for some response. I gave her nothing.
Finally, she sighed. She gathered the old tray, set down the new one, and left. The door clicked shut behind her.
I tried to stand, but the room tilted violently. My hands gripped the window seat, knuckles white, fingers trembling. My head pounded with each heartbeat. My body was screaming for food, for water, for mercy.
My mind didn't care.
I made it back to my bedroom somehow. The journey was a blur of hallway walls and careful steps. The dinner tray remained in the library, another monument to my refusal.
I collapsed onto the mattress, staring at the ceiling. Sleep wouldn't come, though exhaustion weighed on me like wet concrete.
Sleep claimed me at some point, and when I woke, grey dawn light filtered through the curtains. My mouth felt like I'd swallowed sand, my tongue thick and useless. The ceiling above me tilted slightly, though I hadn't moved.
I dragged myself from the bed, bracing against the wall when the room spun. The hallway stretched before me, impossibly long. I made it to the library on unsteady legs, collapsing into the window seat.
Kara appeared in the doorway, silent as always. She carried a tray with toast, scrambled eggs, and a glass of water with lemon. Her eyes met mine, unflinching. She set the tray down and left without a word.
The water called to me. My body screamed for it. I reached out, my hand trembling so badly I nearly knocked the glass over. The cool liquid hit my parched throat, and I drank half before setting it down. But the food remained untouched. I couldn't even think of food without feeling sick.
My vision blurred at the edges when I stood again. I gripped the bookshelf, waiting for the world to stop spinning. From somewhere downstairs, I heardtheir voices. Muffled conversations. The clink of dishes. Coffee brewing. Life continuing as if nothing had happened.
I moved through the house like a ghost, trailing my fingers along the wall for support. Bedroom to library to bedroom. Avoiding them all. My legs felt disconnected from my body, moving without instruction. My thoughts swam through molasses, slow and sticky with grief.
They lived and breathed and moved through their day. And I haunted the edges, fading with each passing hour.
