The Waiting Room
Ruthie’s POV
Morning sunlight comes through the curtains, lining the floor with gold. For once I’m up early, and my body is buzzing with some strange, nervous energy. I should not be this excited given the entire city hanging on its breath still with the “13th Killer” lurking in the news. But I can’t help it. Eliot and I are supposed to begin making wedding plans today. I'm getting a flutter in my chest—a soft, nervous flutter that is half joy and half fear. He proposed so suddenly days ago. We were laughing in front of my building with the city lights reflecting in his eyes when suddenly he was kneeling there on the damp pavement. His voice was shaking, as he told me he didn’t want to waste another moment and how his sickness and his aunt’s death had made clear to him what was.
It was beautiful, and fast, and desperate. Too fast? In my mind, I can see Aiden’s face — that frozen, unreadable expression from the moment he spotted us through the window, his hand hovering on the doorknob. He didn't seem very upset. He looked... hollow. I try to shake it off. This is now my life. My choice. At ten, I cleaned the apartment twice, mopped the already-cleaned floors. At eleven, I tried on three different outfits and found the blue sundress he likes. He said he’d pick me up at noon. It is close to one.
I glance at my phone again. No message. I call his number. It rings once —a short, clipped sound —then goes straight to voicemail. That crushing, familiar feeling gathers in my stomach. "Hey, it’s me," I say as I attempt to keep my voice light and breezy.
“You okay? Just checking in. Call me.” I hang up and look at the telephone as if it might begin to move. Maybe he got caught in traffic. Or he overslept. Or… I don’t know. Maybe he’s avoiding me. No. He wouldn’t. Not after days ago He wouldn’t propose and then vanish again. I bite my lip and grab my bag, the apartment—Aiden’s apartment, if we’re being specific—silence suddenly suffocating.
I walk to the coffee place across the street. I needed coffee and noise and a distraction. The cafe is alive with banter, the scent of warm croissants and burnt espresso in the air; I soak in the warmth. I am just sitting by the window and watching as cars crawl by. Every time a gray sedan goes by my heart skips a beat, but It’s not him. To soothe my frayed nerves, I scroll through old texts with Eliot, from before he vanished for a half-year. Our first date.
His goofy jokes. The way he texted random goodnight photos of the sky. It seems unreal that that same man — ran so gaunt, so haunted, is now my fiance. The table where my phone buzzes. I snatch it immediately, my heart leaping. But it’s just a news alert.
Breaking News: Well-Known Attorney Marjorie Philips Shot and Killed Outside Her Residence.
My chest is tight. Wait—Marjorie Philips? That’s the same woman who solved a big case last week and left the whole of New York baffled.
I tap the link to the article. The screenloads with pulsing headlines and shaky cell-phone video. Police tape, ambulances, flashing lights. I read the words and my heart sinks. “Officials have said 39-year-old Marjorie Philips survived an attempted attack inside her home on Wednesday night. But when she was led to a medical station outside her home, she was shot and killed. The sniper has not been identified. Detectives have identified similarities in the ‘13th Murders.’” I gasp, my hand flying to my mouth. Oh my God… she survived and still died.
It’s cruelty I can’t understand on that scale. I can almost see Aiden there-exhausted, furious, his fists clenched, trying to understand how you could simply walk on. A hot rush of guilt washes over me. We fought last night. I ignored his calls. He told me to watch out, to be smart, and I rolled my eyes, accused him of jealousy.From jealousy to concern,this was quite the leap. But now a new woman is dead, dispatched in a manner that winds up spelling out just how bad this whole thing is.
“Hey you okay?” the barista asks kindly as she places my latte. “Yeah,” I whisper, not really believing it. "Just…someone I read about." I look up the article one more time, trembling, but when something strange abruptly catches my attention – a single photo included in the story. It’s Marjorie grinning with her son
And in the hazy background, there’s a shadow by the fence line. A tall figure. Gray jacket.
I blink hard, zoom in until the pixels corrode into what feels like meaningless squares. No way. It’s probably nothing—just a neighbor or a guest. But the set of shoulders, the height... it’s just a shadow, but the resemblance makes my skin prickle with a cold, specific dread. I'm being crazy. I'm paranoid. I’m starting to sound like Aiden. That thought is enough for me to close the app and drain my lukewarm coffee. Two more hours crawl by. Three o'clock. No call.
No text. Eliot’s number keeps going straight to voicemail. I walk home, the air heavier now, the jitters faded into dull pain. When I open the door, the apartment is silent—too quiet. Aiden’s not home, thank God. I don’t want him to see how rattled I am. I place my bag on the counter, trying to catch my breath. Maybe Eliot’s just sick. Or having his health again. He said it was bad—that his aunt’s death had hit him hard, that he’d been dizzy and tired. He's fine. He's just resting. I tell myself not to panic, but my brain isn’t listening.
At 5, I’m pacing around the living room, the news muted, I keep watching the same images. Reporters saying “sniper,” “same pattern,” “13th.” I feel like every word is a nail being hammered into my skull.
At last, I grab the phone and text Aiden.
> Ruthie: Are you okay?
It takes a moment, then he responds.
> Aiden: Fine. Busy. Stay in tonight. Lock your doors.
My lips twitch with emotion. He’s always so direct, but this time I can hear the exhaustion, the nerves raw as they seem to be getting peeled from his skin buried in the words.
> Ruthie: I will.
> Ruthie: Haven’t heard from Eliot since morning. I'm beginning to worry.
No reply. Of course not. He's at a murder scene. I sigh, setting the phone down. By six-thirty the sky outside is gray once more. Rain drops strike the windows. I light a candle, mostly for comfort. The flicker paints the walls gold.
Then, gradually, I slide open my drawer and extract the tiny velvet box Eliot gave me. The ring sparkles — simple, silver, beautiful. I slide it on, then off. Then on again. My heart aches. Why hasn't he called? What if he changed his mind? What if the disease is worse than he said? What if he doesn’t want to drag me into his sickness? Or what if… something happened? I shake the thought away. No. No, no, no. He’s fine. He's just... Eliot. He gets overwhelmed. He's fine
At seven, the door is swung open. I spin around — but it’s just Aiden. Once again he looks tired — hair wet from the rain, shirt sleeves scrunched up, tie undone. He halts when he notices me, his gaze drifting to the ring box on the table before he looks up at me.
"Long day?" I whisper.
"Longest." He looks at me. "You heard about Philips?"
"Yeah." The sound of my voice breaks. "She… she didn’t make it."
He nods, jaw tight. "The shooter was careful. Knew the layout. It’s personal now."
I swallow hard. "Personal?"
He looks me over for a moment and then breaks his gaze. "Just stay alert, okay? Lock up when I’m gone." I nod, then try to change the subject, wanting reassurance.
“Eliot’s absent. I think he’s sick again." Aiden’s eyes dart back to the ring box. "You talked to him today?"
"No. He’s not picking up." He gives a small sigh. "Maybe he needs space."
"Space?" I whisper. "He asked me to marry him, Aiden."
His voice softens, almost tired. "When people are scared, they say a lot of things." The words cut deep—not because they are cruel, but because they sound like truths. I want to fight back but instead I just murmur, "He loves me." He nods slowly.
"I hope so."
Then he goes to his room, and I’m left alone with my thoughts. Rain starts to fall harder. I curl up on the couch, pulling a blanket around me, staring at my silent phone. Every drop of rain sounds like a clock ticking – each second heavier than the last. When the candle dances down to its basis, I hush to the vacant chamber,
“Please be okay, Eliot.” But deep inside, a s
mall voice I don't want to listen to tells me back—What if he’s not?