Chapter 90: Someone Standing There
Del sat at the small dining table, a fork idle in her hand. She chewed without tasting, her stomach tightening more with every bite she forced down.
The silence pressed in around her—not peaceful, but heavy. The police had told her they were “doing the best they could,” that she needed to “wait.” She’d been waiting. For days.
Her jaw clenched. Waiting didn’t feel like patience anymore. It felt like decay.
The conversation with Oliver’s ex hadn’t helped either. Collette had been polite enough, even sympathetic, but useless. She’d said they dated for a few months, broke up because he was “distant,” and that was it, but then she kept seeing Oliver after the breakup was because the sex was incredible.
The whole conversation made Del’s stomach twist — not out of jealousy, but annoyance. Collette had no stories and no details about Oliver. And she had hung up feeling like she’d just spoken to a stranger about another stranger. Oliver had managed to spend months with someone and still keep every door in himself locked.
Del pushed her glass of water away. The house felt too still, her thoughts looping back to the same point — nobody really knew Oliver that much. Not Liza. Not Collette. Not even her, maybe.
But she would find him. With or without their help.
She pushed a piece of food around her plate without appetite. Her eyes kept drifting toward the seat across from her—Oliver’s seat. His coffee mug was still there from days ago, turned upside down to dry by the sink. She hadn’t moved it.
Every few minutes, she reached for her phone. The screen lit up to the same search results: local news alerts, police updates, and missing person forums. Nothing new. She refreshed again anyway.
No new reports of unidentified bodies. No mention of anyone matching Oliver’s description. Relief flickered through her before it dissolved into the same hollow stillness.
She wasn’t waiting to see his name in a headline or his face in one of those blurred photos they posted beside a riverbank. God, she didn’t want that. She just wanted something—a sighting, a lead, a word from anyone who might’ve seen him. Even bad news would be easier than this silence that kept stretching, day after day, like a held breath that never released.
Her thumb hovered over the refresh button again, but still nothing.
She put the phone face down and stared at the door. The latch caught a bit of the dim kitchen light, and for a second, she thought she heard something outside. Her body went still, listening.
But then there was nothing as she listened closely. Just the sound of a car passing somewhere down the street.
She looked back at the empty chair. After a moment, she picked up her fork again, but the food had gone cold. She took one small bite, forced herself to chew, then stopped.
Her phone buzzed. She snatched it up immediately—only to find a message from Liza.
Any updates?
Del typed back quickly.
Nothing yet.
She stared at the screen for a long time before adding,
I keep thinking I’ll hear him outside opening the door...
The typing indicator appeared, then stopped, then appeared again before disappearing for good.
She set the phone down and looked at the door once more. Still nothing.
After eating, Del carried her plate to the sink. The water ran warm over her hands as she rinsed the dishes, the motion automatic, almost quiet enough to drown out the worries she felt.
The house had never felt this silent. Even when Oliver wasn’t talking, there was always something—a low tune from his phone, footsteps down the hall, the sound of him pacing while thinking.
She stood there for a moment, dish towel in hand, staring at the window above the sink. Her reflection looked tired, the kitchen light casting faint circles under her eyes.
It was strange how quickly she’d gotten used to him being around. His mug on the counter; his jacket usually by the stairs. The way the house used to feel less like hers, but somehow more alive.
When she finished cleaning, she left the lights on and went upstairs.
In her room, she sat by her desk and opened her sketchbook. The pages were blank except for one half-finished drawing from the week before—lines she didn’t remember making. She picked up her pencil and started another aimless stroke that went nowhere.
After half an hour, she stopped. The page looked wrong. Too forced. She closed the sketchbook and pushed it aside.
She changed into her pajamas, slid into bed, and lay staring at the ceiling. The sheets were cool; the air was still too. She turned over once, then again. Nothing helped.
Reaching out, she turned off the light. Darkness filled the room quickly, too heavy, too wide. The kind that made every sound outside feel closer.
Her chest tightened. She waited a few minutes, trying to convince herself to stay still, but the quiet only grew louder.
With a small sigh, she turned the lamp back on. Its weak light spread across the room. She exhaled slowly, eyes half open, and somewhere between one breath and the next, she drifted off.
It was half past midnight when Del stirred, caught somewhere between sleep and waking, where sounds blur and time feels unsteady.
Her eyes stayed closed. She told herself it was nothing. But the feeling wouldn’t leave. It sat in her chest like a weight—someone was there. Watching.
Her pulse climbed. She could almost sense the space bending around another presence, the faint shift of air near the foot of her bed. The longer she lay still, the clearer it became: this wasn’t imagination.
Every instinct screamed at her to move, but her body refused. She barely breathed, afraid the sound might draw whatever it was closer.
Then, from the darkness, she heard it—the soft creak of floorboards.
Her throat went dry. She forced her eyes open.
And there he was—a tall figure, half-shadowed, standing by her bed exactly where her fear had placed him.