Chapter 63 Decisions
Violet
I wake up slowly, the kind of waking that feels like surfacing through heavy water instead of snapping into consciousness.
For a second, I don’t know where I am.
Then I notice the other side of the bed is empty.
The sheets are rumpled, the pillow indented but cold. Camille must have gotten up early. That makes sense. She never sleeps well in unfamiliar places, and last night was a lot.
The memory presses into my chest anyway. The talking. The crying. The words I never meant to say out loud.
I might be falling for Rowan.
I close my eyes again, just for a moment.
Not today.
I refuse to think about that today.
My emotions are still too close to the surface, too sharp around the edges. Everything that has happened feels stacked on top of me. The restroom. Calder. My mother. The cameras. This house that feels less like a home and more like a bunker.
I do not trust myself to touch that thought without unraveling completely.
So I do what I have always done.
I compartmentalize.
I sit up slowly and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. The room is quiet in a way that does not feel peaceful. There is no personal clutter. No warmth. Just space designed for control and safety.
I dress without ceremony.
I pull on my work shirt but leave the tie folded on the dresser. No blazer. No skirt. I tug on the leggings that I wore under my work skirt.
I tie my hair back into a low ponytail and catch my reflection in the mirror.
I look… tired.
But lighter somehow. Less assembled. Less armored.
I’ll take it.
When I open the bedroom door, the house greets me with quiet movement. The low hum of systems running. Distant footsteps. The sense that this place is awake even when its occupants aren’t.
I follow my vague memory of the layout, padding down the hall toward the kitchen and dining area Rowan showed me yesterday.
That’s when I smell food.
Actual food.
I stop short when I see Devin at the stove.
He’s in a fitted black shirt, sleeves pushed up, moving around the kitchen like he belongs there. A pan sizzles quietly. He looks up when he notices me and smiles—not sharp or professional, just… kind.
“Morning,” he says. “Hope I didn’t wake you.”
“You didn’t,” I reply honestly. “I just... wasn’t expecting this.”
He chuckles softly. “Most people aren’t. Rowan doesn’t cook. Theo burns water. That leaves me.”
I blink. “You cook?”
“Competently,” he says with mock seriousness. “What do you feel like? Pancakes are already happening, but I can pivot.”
“No, pancakes are perfect,” I say quickly. “I didn’t mean... thank you.”
He nods like it matters. “You’re welcome.”
I glance past him toward the balcony doors and spot Camille and Theo outside, sitting close together, plates in their hands. Camille’s laughing, really laughing, and Theo looks like he’s the reason. They don’t notice me watching, wrapped up in their own bubble.
It makes my chest ache in a strange, bittersweet way.
I’m happy for her.
I just wish happiness didn’t feel like something other people get handed more easily.
Devin slides a plate onto the counter like he’s been doing this his whole life. Pancakes, eggs, sausage. A glass of orange juice already poured.
“Sit,” he says gently. “Before it gets cold.”
I do, perching on one of the stools.
He hesitates, just a second too long, then clears his throat. “The funeral home called this morning.”
My hands still.
“They said your mother is ready,” he continues quietly. “And… your brother. They wanted to confirm next steps.”
I nod once, slow and steady, like I’m acknowledging a calendar update instead of the fact that my entire family now exists as logistics.
“Thank you,” I say. “That’s… that’s fine.”
“You don’t have to decide anything this second,” he adds. “But Rowan wanted you to know as soon as possible.”
Rowan.
I wonder where he is.
I’ve been avoiding that question since I woke up, like if I don’t think about him, he won’t take up space in my head. It doesn’t work, of course. It never does.
“Is he… here?” I ask.
Devin shakes his head. “Not yet. He stepped out early. Said he’d be back later.”
I nod again, pushing my fork into the pancakes even though I’m not sure I’m hungry. “That’s okay.”
Saturday. No work. No phones ringing. No calendars demanding attention.
Just grief.
Just decisions I can’t delay anymore.
“Could I borrow your computer?” I ask suddenly. “Just for a bit.”
Devin doesn’t question it. He disappears for a moment and returns with a slim laptop, setting it gently in front of me like it’s fragile.
“Take as long as you need,” he says. “I’ll be around.”
“Thank you,” I repeat, and this time my voice wobbles just slightly.
He leaves me there with food, quiet, and space, something I didn’t realize I desperately needed.
I stare down at the screen as it wakes up, the familiar glow grounding me.
Funeral arrangements. Burial logistics. Dates. Paperwork.
I can handle this.
I take a bite of pancake. Sweet. Warm.
Outside, Camille laughs again, and Theo says something that makes her snort.
Inside, the house holds steady around me.
I set the fork down slowly and pull the laptop closer, but it is not the screen that holds my attention anymore. It is the weight pressing behind my ribs, the quiet certainty that if I do not do this now, it will haunt me.
I wipe my hands on a napkin, steady my breathing, and reach for my phone.
The number Devin gave me is already pulled up.
Sunnyfields Burial Homes.
I hesitate for exactly one second.
Then I press call.
It rings twice.
“Sunnyfields Burial Homes, this is Marlene speaking. How may I help you today?”
Her voice is calm. Soft. The kind of voice that has practiced grief until it sounds gentle instead of hollow.
“Hi,” I say. My throat tightens, but I push through it. “My name is Violet Pierce. I was told to call about arrangements for my mother.”
There is a pause, the sound of keys tapping.
“Yes, Ms. Pierce,” she says. “I have her file here. I am very sorry for your loss.”
I nod even though she cannot see me. “Thank you. I’d like to arrange burial services as soon as possible. I want my mother and my brother buried together.”
The silence on the other end stretches.
Something cold settles in my stomach.
“I’m so sorry,” Marlene says carefully, her tone shifting. “But that will not be possible through us.”
I blink. “I don’t understand.”
“Your mother is in our care,” she explains. “But your brother is not.”