Hundred and seventeen

The next morning, 

I woke up with a dull ache behind my eyes, a lingering tension that I hadn’t been able to shake for days. No matter how much sleep I got, it felt like my body was trying to outrun something... something I couldn’t name but felt creeping behind me. The city was unusually gray that morning. The kind of gray that settled into your bones and made your skin feel too tight. It matched my mood perfectly.

As I arrived at the office, the hum of fluorescent lights and the tapping of keyboards filled the air, oddly comforting in its routine monotony. I made my way through the rows of cubicles, offering polite smiles, nods, and the occasional distracted “good morning” until I reached my desk. I settled in, booted up my computer, and tried to lose myself in work.

But not five minutes passed before Ethan appeared.

He hovered near my desk, hands in his pockets, his eyes flicking toward me and then away, as if he wasn’t sure whether to stay or walk off. “Hey,” he said finally.

I turned, surprised. We hadn’t really spoken much since the last confrontation, and I didn’t expect small talk from him.

“Morning,” I replied, trying to keep my tone neutral.

Ethan shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "I was wondering..." he started, glancing around the room. "Has Henry forgiven you?"

My fingers froze on the keyboard. I blinked up at him, his words landing like a blow. “Why are you asking me that?” I asked, forcing my voice to remain calm.

He shrugged with fake nonchalance. “Just curious.”

“No one’s ever just curious,” I said quietly. “Especially not you.”

His eyes lingered on mine a moment too long. Then he gave a curt nod and backed off, disappearing toward his own office. I stared after him, suspicion blooming in my chest like a bruise. What game was he playing now?

I tried to return to work, but my thoughts were too loud, too scattered. I found myself rereading the same sentence over and over again. Henry. Forgiveness. Why would Ethan care if Henry had forgiven me? unless he knew something I didn’t?

By noon, my concentration was shot. I remembered the file I’d left at my mother’s house, an important document I needed to finalize the case I’d been working on. With a sigh, I grabbed my coat and told the receptionist I’d be back shortly.

The drive to my mother’s house was quiet, the streets unusually empty. The trees lining the sidewalk swayed gently in the breeze, casting dappled shadows across the pavement. The neighborhood looked the same as always, but there was something... off. A tension in the air.

As I parked in the driveway, I noticed the front door was slightly ajar. My breath caught in my throat.

I had always locked the door.

I stepped out of the car, my heels clicking on the concrete, heart pounding faster with each step. I pushed the door open slowly, hesitating on the threshold.

“Hello?” I called. “Is anyone here?”

No answer.

The house looked untouched. The couch cushions were still fluffed, the framed photographs on the mantle still aligned perfectly. I moved cautiously through the living room, into the hallway. That’s when I heard it, a soft creak, like a footstep on hardwood.

Someone was here.

Every instinct screamed at me to leave. But I couldn’t. Not yet.

I crept toward the dining room, where the file should have been on the table. And there it was—only now, another manila folder sat beside it. Unmarked. Out of place.

With shaking fingers, I picked it up and flipped it open.

My eyes scanned the first page.

AUTOPSY REPORT – 

My heart stopped.

Cause of death: Manual strangulation.

Not the air accident. Not an accident at all. I felt my knees buckle and gripped the back of the chair to steady myself. The words blurred before my eyes as I tried to absorb what I was seeing.

Time of death didn’t even match the timeline they’d told me. The injuries sustained were inconsistent with a plane crash. Ligature marks. Bruising. Petechial hemorrhaging. Every detail screamed murder.

Strangled.. Henry’s brother had been strangled to death.

I was still staring at the report when my phone buzzed. I fumbled to pull it out of my bag, expecting, hoping... It was Henry.

But it wasn’t a call, it was a text.

Blocked Number: "You should’ve stayed away. You’re next."

My breath caught in my chest, I looked around, panic tightening every muscle. Were they still here?

I snatched the autopsy report and my original file and bolted out of the house, my heels slipping slightly as I stumbled toward my car. I got in, slammed the doors shut, locked them, and peeled out of the driveway.

My hands trembled so hard I could barely hold the steering wheel.

I drove without thinking, my mind racing with possibilities. Who had been there? Who had left the file? Was it a warning? Or a trap? The message was clear, they were watching me. They knew where I’d be. What I was looking for.

I couldn’t go back to work. Not now... I parked on a quiet side street a few miles away and pulled out my phone again. I tried calling Henry, even though I knew how ridiculous that was.

Straight to voicemail, I tried again. Same result.

Finally, I opened the file once more, reading it line by line, hoping for a clue. Something that would make sense of this madness. But all I saw was the gruesome confirmation that the man I loved hadn’t died in an accident.

He’d been killed... Murdered... And now I was next.

Tears stung my eyes, but I blinked them back. I couldn’t afford to fall apart now. Not when I was finally starting to see the truth.

I leaned back in my seat and let the panic wash over me in waves. Somewhere along the way, someone had decided I knew too much. Or maybe they were trying to stop me before I got any closer.

But they’d failed... Because now, more than ever, I needed answers... And I would get them.

Even if it killed me.