Something better than a lie
Ruthie's POV
The apartment is dark except for the light of Aiden’s laptop in the living room. He’s collapsed asleep on the couch yet again, head tipped back at an unnatural angle, papers strewn across the coffee table and the floor. Sweat beads form on my temples as I tiptoed.
Photos of the victims. Case notes. Names i dont want to see.
And then—one of them catches my eye. A separate file, away from the rest.
Marjorie Philips.
A yellow sticky note is affixed to the front of her file, scrawled in Aiden’s handwriting that is ridiculously neat for someone withaccess to so much Aiden.
Stand by for call - Eliot Raines.
The words for a second become blurred together. My heart beats irregularly with pain. Eliot? No. No, this isn’t correct. It’s all just a mistake. A coincidence. It’s a common name. It’s not my Eliot. Shaking, I take the file and open it. There is a smiling young woman with warm eyes in the picture, but where is it? I hear Aiden stir, a low groan, and I deftly, guiltily, replace the file exactly where I took it. I run to my room, my thoughts a whirlwind.
Eliot Raines. Last known call. It must be someone else.
But the name, if you add in the "too perfect" incidents, the shadow at my window, the impossible knowledge of my location... Well, pretty soon it’s all starting to click into a scary, hideous picture.
Early the next day and Eliot presents himself at my door once more – right on cue, just as I’m thinking about him. He brings flowers.
Peonies. My favorite kind and they’re not even in season.
“Hey,” he says softly, stroking his thumb across my wrist as I hold the bouquet. “You okay? You didn’t answer my call last night.”
I smile faintly, the flowers now smelling like a funeral. “I fell asleep early.”
He appraises me thoroughly, his gaze diving into mine, as if he can tell I'm not being truthful. “You look worried.”
“Just tired,” I say. “A lot’s been going” on.”
He nods and hugs me. “There’s nothing you need to worry about. I’ll take care of you.” That should make me feel better. It doesn’t. I feel his breath on my neck, his heartbeat next to mine—steady, controlled. And for the first time since I met him, I realize something. Eliot doesn’t blink when he lies.
\---
Later that day, I made an excuse. I tell him I have to run some errands for the wedding. Instead I head to the church he says he sent his aunt’s ashes to, St. Augustine’s. The one he allegedly has family ties to. My stomach curls the entire way there.
I tell the pastor with a kindly face that I am Eliot’s soon-to-be fiancé and that I simply need to confirm a few details about the service he conducted for his aunt.
The pastor makes a frowning face and pushes up his glasses.
“Ashes? I haven’t had any recent orders by that name. Raines, you said?”
My stomach lurches. “Are you sure? Eliot Raines. His aunt, Maggie.”
He glances at his logbook, and drags a finger along the latest entries. “Positive. We haven’t performed a service for that person in ages.”
I force a smile, my cheeks aching. I thank him and exit at a leisurely pace, my hands shaking so violently I can hardly find my keys. When I go out to the bright midday light, Eliot’s black car is already parked on the far side of the street. He rolls his window down and smiles, sunglasses concealing his eyes.
“Thought I’d surprise you,” he says, his voice as casual as ever. “You were running errands here.”
I hadn’t. I had told him specifically I was going to the tailor across town.
We drive home in silence. He hums to the radio, thumps the wheel in time. I look out the window, trying not to notice that he’s peeking at me. At a red light, he reaches over, takes my hand in his. “You trust me, right, Ruthie?”
I turn to look at him. The sunset shines through his sunglasses, hiding him. “Of course,” I whisper.
He smiles, that same gentle smile he always wears. But it looks like something from a horror movie.
When we arrive home, I lock myself in at my room with the excuse of napping. Instead, I grab my old notebook and write everything down, because I have to see it to make it real.
1\. Come to work (didn’t know my schedule).
2\. Sent "You look lovely" (wasn’t online, curtains drawn together).
3\. Shadow at my window.
4\. Showed up at the café I never named.
5\. Lied about the ashes (confirmed by pastor).
6\. Came upon me at the church (lied about where I was going).
7\. His name on Aiden's file. Marjorie Philips.”
I look at the list until everything becomes blurry. Maybe it’s coincidence. Maybe it’s paranoia. Or maybe… it’s not.
A soft knock interrupts the thoughts running through my head. “Ruthie?” It’s Aiden. He sounds calm, but weary.
“Yeah?” I call, slamming the notepad closed.
"Dinner’s ready. I bought pizza."
“I’ll be down soon.”
And when I go to the door, he’s right there with two paper plates. He looks at me a moment. “You okay? You look like you haven’t slept in days.”
I hesitate. For that brief, crazy, frantic moment, I almost tell him it all. About Eliot. The list. The file. The fear I can’t name. But then I notice the stack of case files he still carries in his other hand, the name Marjorie Philips just peeking out. He’s had plenty to deal with. He’s trying to catch a monster; I can’t tell him I’m engaged to one.
“Yeah,” I lie, grabbing a plate. “I'm good. Just stressed about the wedding.”
He doesn’t seem buy it. “If you say so.”
As he strides off, I exhale shakily. Then I look out my window, beyond the oak tree, to the street below. And I freeze.
Across the street, beneath the weak streetlight, Eliot’s ca
r remains. And I can swear, in the dark, that he’s looking right at me.”