Chapter 79
Chapter 79
At first, it was small things.
Barely noticeable cracks that Elena told herself were nothing—just stress, exhaustion, the strain of everything they’d been through.
But the longer she stayed, the more she realized the air between them had changed.
Adrian’s silences were sharper now. His smiles, thinner. His patience—once endless—had turned brittle, like glass stretched too thin.
And his eyes… his eyes no longer warmed her. They watched her.
It began one morning when she mentioned Hale.
They were in the kitchen, sunlight spilling weakly through the blinds. She was stirring sugar into her coffee when she said it—without thinking.
“Hale called again yesterday,” she said. “He wanted to know if—”
The mug slipped from her hand, shattering against the tile.
She jumped, heart pounding, before realizing she hadn’t dropped it. Adrian had.
He stood across from her, his expression unreadable. His hand was still clenched where it had been holding the cup.
“What did you say?” he asked.
“Adrian—”
“What did you say about me to him?” His tone was calm, too calm.
“Nothing,” she said quickly. “He just wanted to check in.”
“Check in.” He repeated it like it was a foreign phrase. “With you. Not me.”
“He’s worried,” she said softly. “After everything that’s happened—”
His jaw tightened. “He wants to control you. Make you think I’m dangerous.”
Elena swallowed. “He’s not—”
“He is,” Adrian cut in sharply. “That’s what people do when they can’t stand to see you happy. They plant doubt. They make you question what’s real.”
She took a step back. “I’m not questioning—”
“Yes, you are,” he said, eyes flashing. “Every time I look at you lately, you’re somewhere else. In your head. With him. With your suspicion.”
“Adrian, stop—”
He slammed his hand on the counter, the sound ricocheting through the room.
Elena froze.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the coffee dripping slowly onto the floor, darkening the cracks between the tiles.
Then, just as suddenly, his expression shifted. The anger melted, replaced by something almost fragile.
He stepped toward her, voice trembling. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to raise my voice. I just… I can’t lose you, Elena.”
She let him pull her into his arms, though her body stayed tense. His heartbeat thudded hard against her ear, too fast.
“It’s okay,” she whispered, even though it wasn’t.
He kissed her hair. “You believe me, don’t you? About Hale. About everything.”
She hesitated. “Yes.”
“Say it.”
“I believe you.”
He exhaled, as if her words had physically calmed him. But his grip didn’t loosen.
And she realized then—it wasn’t comfort he wanted. It was control.
That night, he cooked her dinner—steak and rosemary potatoes, her favorite. The gesture might have been sweet, once. But now, it felt performative, rehearsed.
He watched her eat with a faint, unnerving smile.
“You’re quiet tonight,” he said.
“I’m just tired.”
He tilted his head. “You’ve been tired a lot lately.”
She forced a small smile. “Maybe I need a vacation.”
“You just had one,” he said evenly. “With me.”
“Yes, but maybe something… shorter. A weekend away.”
His smile faded. “Without me?”
“No, I didn’t mean—”
He set his fork down slowly. “You did. You want space.”
“Everyone needs space sometimes,” she said carefully.
His eyes narrowed, studying her face as though trying to read a hidden code beneath her words. “You sound like him again.”
“Hale?”
He didn’t answer.
The silence stretched until she couldn’t bear it. “Adrian, I’m not your enemy.”
He leaned back in his chair. “Then stop acting like one.”
Something in his voice made her flinch.
He saw it, and immediately his tone softened. “Elena, I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry. I’ve just… I’ve been on edge. The press, the whispers, the detective—everyone waiting for me to slip.”
She reached across the table, touching his hand. “You don’t have to prove anything to anyone.”
His eyes softened. “You always say the right things.”
But the tension didn’t lift.
That night, when he came to bed, his touch was different—harder, urgent, as though trying to erase something invisible between them. She let him, but the tenderness had vanished. When he finally fell asleep beside her, she lay awake, staring at the ceiling, her body aching in ways that had nothing to do with passion.
Over the next few days, his moods shifted without warning.
He could be gentle one moment—bringing her flowers, whispering apologies, kissing her forehead—and cruel the next, slamming doors, muttering under his breath, accusing her of lies she hadn’t told.
She learned to measure her words, to watch for signs: the twitch in his jaw, the sudden quiet, the way he’d start pacing before something snapped.
One afternoon, she came home from errands to find him sitting on the couch, staring at her laptop.
Her stomach dropped. “What are you doing?”
He turned the screen toward her. “Checking something.”
Her notes. The file she’d been keeping—about the murders, about him. It was open.
“Why are you writing about me like this?” His voice was low, dangerous.
“Adrian, it’s not what it looks like—”
“It looks like you’ve been documenting me.”
“It’s just thoughts,” she said quickly. “Therapy, you know? Writing things down to clear my head.”
He laughed softly, but there was no humor in it. “Therapy. You think I’m sick.”
“No—”
“You think I’m dangerous.”
Her pulse pounded in her throat. “Adrian, please—”
He stood, moving toward her slowly. “Do you think I don’t notice how you look at me now? Like you’re waiting for me to do something terrible?”
She backed up until her shoulders hit the wall. “You’re scaring me.”
He stopped. His expression broke, and for a heartbeat she saw the man she’d fallen in love with—the one who’d once cried in her arms.
“Oh, God,” he said hoarsely, stepping back. “Elena, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
But she was already shaking, tears stinging her eyes.
He sank to his knees, his voice raw. “Please. I’m losing everything. Everyone thinks I’m a monster. Don’t let them turn you against me too.”
Her hands trembled as she touched his hair. “I’m not against you.”
“Then don’t write about me,” he whispered. “Don’t talk to him anymore. Promise me.”
“I promise.”
He looked up, searching her face. “Say it again.”
“I promise.”
He stood slowly, brushing his fingers against her cheek. “Good girl.”
The words made her stomach twist.
When he left the room, she locked herself in the bathroom and sank to the floor, her breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps.
For the first time, she didn’t just feel afraid of what he might do.
She felt afraid of how easily she was beginning to forgive him.
That night, she found him sitting on the edge of the bed, staring out the window. The moonlight carved strange shadows across his face.
He didn’t look up when she spoke. “Adrian?”
“Do you think people are born evil,” he said quietly, “or made that way?”
“I don’t know.”
He nodded once. “Neither do I.”
She hesitated. “You’re not evil, Adrian.”
He turned then, eyes gleaming in the dark. “No? Then why do people keep dying around me?”
She froze.
He smiled faintly, though his eyes didn’t. “That’s a joke, Elena. You can breathe.”
But she didn’t.
Because beneath his words, she heard something that wasn’t a joke at all—just the brittle edge of a man trying to hold himself together, and the faint, terrifying suspicion that maybe he already couldn’t.
When she finally fell asleep, she dreamed of standing on a frozen lake, the ice cracking beneath her feet. Adrian was there, calling her name from the shore.
But when she tried to move toward him, the ice gave way, and she realized too late—he wasn’t reaching for her hand.
He was watching her sink.