Chapter 9

POV Coraline

The journalists made no effort to hide their morbid interest in every detail of his death. After the funeral, which took place at the church Andrew used to attend on Sundays, a gathering was held at my house, organized by Lucy. When we arrived, there was already a horde of people holding cameras and microphones just a few meters from the property gate. It took a lot of energy to keep my composure and not tell them all to go to hell.

"What are these people doing here?" I asked Lucy.

The driver kept the windows closed and guided us inside the gates without giving the vultures an opening.

"They're interested in knowing what happened."

I closed my eyes and let my head rest against the seat.

"It’s been five days, Lucy."

"It was a brutal crime," she murmured. "I don’t think they’ll forget it anytime soon, especially not until they find who’s responsible."

I let out an exasperated sigh.

"Did Andrew’s parents say if they’re coming?"

She stayed silent for a long time, which answered my question.

"Great. I don’t need his mother looking at me like I’m a piece of shit."

"Cora!"

I looked at her.

"What?!"

Lucy shook her head and stared straight ahead. Her curly hair was tied in a ponytail, giving me a full view of her elegant profile. Her full lips were pursed, carrying the frustration she was trying to hide.

"Are you mad at me?"

She shook her head.

"I’m worried about you."

So was I.

"It’s going to be fine," I replied.

Lucy looked at me.

"I’ll be with you the whole time," she said. "If it gets to be too much, I’ll send them all away."

While most people liked having friends and family in their home to somehow share the pain of loss, the idea of dealing with all those bodies moving through my living room and kitchen was slowly killing me. More than anything, I just wanted to be alone for as long as possible, but I knew that would be misinterpreted.

"Thank you."

She squeezed my hand and smiled.

Once we were inside, cars started spreading out around the house until there was barely any space left to park. Andrew was well-loved by friends, clients, coworkers, and even distant relatives. It was expected that so many people would come to say goodbye.

I spent the next two hours trying to be a good hostess. I let the fog of indifference cover my feelings—those I couldn’t let surface in front of others. From me, they expected sadness, kindness, and grief, but not too much, because I hadn’t known him for that long. Too much despair could be seen as inappropriate. Six months of friendship were enough to justify some tears, a slight headache, and a nice speech, but no one wanted to see me fall apart. That was what I committed to delivering for the endless hours of that gathering, even though deep down, I just wanted to scream.

I wanted them to leave and take the damn food crowding the table with them.

Andrew’s boss intercepted me on my third trip to the bathroom. At the base of the stairs, he touched my shoulder and smiled at me. Mischa Anderson was a pig—the kind of man I despised. I was used to feeling his eyes on me in the few instances we had met. The first time was at a charity dinner hosted by the company. Andrew didn’t know many people in town and asked me to go with him, no strings attached. He said, "It’s just dinner, Cora. You don’t have to worry about me proposing to you." Eventually, I agreed to go, reminding myself it didn’t mean we were getting more serious.

The second time was at a picnic in the park. Mischa was out with his wife and son when he saw us sitting on the grass and decided to stop by and say hello. He didn’t need an invitation to extend the greeting, sit down on our blanket, snack on our food, and drink our juice. Of course, I felt uncomfortable, but Andrew was incapable of being rude to his boss or anyone else. I hated and appreciated his kindness, though I always thought it put him in awkward situations.

"I didn’t get the chance to offer my condolences, Coraline." His small, rat-like teeth flashed in another smile. He smoothed his dry fingers over my shoulder. "I want you to know you can count on me for whatever you need. Andrew was like a son to me."

Like hell he was. Don’t touch me, you pig.

I smiled.

"Thank you, Mischa."

I stepped away before he could continue the conversation, his arm left hanging in the air. Inside, the satisfaction of making him uncomfortable felt good.

I climbed the stairs slowly, savoring every second of peace I could get. In a normal situation, dealing with so many people in one space for so long was already exhausting, but the fact that they were all here because of Andrew’s death made it worse. It was as if the suffering validated my feelings for him.

I entered the bathroom and splashed water on my face. I was so drained from thinking that my brain felt like it was shutting down. I paused for a moment, forced myself to breathe, to control my emotions—then I noticed something.

There was a photo of my backyard taped to the wall, showing the old swing that had been there since I moved in and had never been of any real use. On the back, a single phrase: "come here."

Instead of calling the police, I slipped out through the back and managed to avoid most of the guests. The garden was one of my favorite parts of the house. It stretched behind the property, filled with trees and shrubs that extended all the way to the dirt road leading to the reserve. The swing hung from the thick branch of an old apple tree, which provided plenty of apples for cinnamon pies.

There was nothing unusual about the swing, but the fact that it was always there, still and abandoned, made it feel like everything around it was dead.

I approached and looked around, searching for anything that might seem suspicious. It was still daytime, but dusk was approaching, meaning I had to be quick. I wasn’t stupid enough to stay outside after dark.

I got closer to the swing and saw that something had been left on it.

A chess piece.

With trembling fingers, I smiled. A white rook.

The first piece could have been a coincidence, but this one wasn’t. Even though I hadn’t played in a long time, two pieces had appeared in my house within a short span of time. Someone had placed them both for me to find; the question was why.

I decided I should tell the investigators, so I called them.

I heard police sirens arriving on the street about twenty minutes later. Looking beyond the house, I saw the investigators' car pull up in front of the property. I took a deep breath and stood up, ready to go meet them.

Adam was the first to see me.

"You said you had new information," he said hurriedly, not even greeting me. "What is it?"

I glanced at Eleanor. Like him, she looked tense, apprehensive—like this visit was both an inconvenience and a sliver of hope.

"Did something happen?" I asked.

They exchanged looks.

"We found something at the bookstore," Eleanor said. "Do you know what this is?"

She handed me a photo. It was an image of a note.