Chapter 2 AFTER MORNING
ETHAN POV\]
I get up at precisely 6:30 - no alarm needed.
The light slips past the curtains just like every morning - gentle, pale. Aria’s breathing slowly beside me, her hand sprawled above her forehead while the other stays wedged beneath the pillow.
She stayed up way past bedtime. Around four, I noticed her moving about in the kitchen. The coffee machine hummed for a while - after that, silence. It’s something she tends to do now and then. Simply sitting there without turning on the light.
I just stopped asking altogether.
I rise quietly, trying not to rock the bed much. Since she’s got to rest - her work drains her more than she says.
The flat’s silent. I prefer it just like this - before dawn breaks, when folks begin stirring.
I head into the kitchen, then switch on the kettle. As the water warms up, I grab my notebook from the counter - same spot as last night. It has a black leather cover, frayed around the edges. That makes six notebooks since I started keeping track three years back.
I turn to the final page I’d scribbled on.
Room 406 at The Starlight. Smelled like lavender - plastic scent. The carpet felt rough underfoot. She stayed quiet instead.
I draw a line below.
The detective’ll spot the pen. Then she’ll know it’s familiar. Yet she keeps quiet for now.
The kettle shuts down.
I brew my own coffee - no sugar at all. Aria? She drinks hers with cream, plus a ton of sweet stuff, though honestly, I don't get it. It should just taste like coffee.
I'm sitting by the table, checking what's happening outside. There are hardly any vehicles moving down the road. One person is taking their pet for a stroll. Just regular folks going about their day.
I imagine Aria in that motel room. Clear as day, really - her stepping slow, deliberate. She’d take each step like it mattered. Then spotting the bird… yeah, her jaw would clench, no doubt.
Next up, the pen.
I sometimes think - did her fingers tremble the moment she grabbed it?
Maybe not. But she knows how to stay calm. That’s something I really like about her.
But I bet she held it a little too long. I bet she turned it over, read the engraving twice. I bet she put it in her pocket and didn't tell anyone.
Here’s how I’d have handled it.
Aria steps into the hall about seven-ten. Hair tied tight, clothes on - ready to roll. Moves like something’s waiting down the road.
"Morning," I say.
She looks my way, then shifts to the mug I brewed - resting there on the countertop, heat still rising.
She grabs it - yet stays on her feet.
"You get called in last night?"
"Yeah."
"Another one?"
She gives a quick nod, but keeps her eyes away from mine.
I wait. Either she tells me - or nothing comes out.
"Same as the others," she says finally. "Same setup. Same bird."
"That's five now, right?"
"Yeah."
I grab a drink from my coffee. Yet, are you making progress on it?
"Not really."
She’s not being honest. Her grip on the mug gives her away - fingers clamped tight, both palms stuck to the sides. It isn’t chilly at all in this room.
"You'll figure it out," I say. "You always do."
She turns to me right then - actually stares. As if searching for a detail she’d missed earlier.
“Sure,” she replies. Or perhaps
She pecks my forehead then walks away.
I hear the door shut - her steps down the hall, then the ping of the elevator.
After that, I head into my study.
The space looks just like before. Beside the glass, there’s a table - neat rows of novels on upright racks. A storage box sits tucked near the wall. The computer stays shut most of the time. Writing? I skip typing at first - paper feels better.
A pile of papers sits to the left of the desk - pages from the next book. These are rough versions. Chapter eighteen is where I’m at now.
I plop into my chair then flip the notebook open once more.
The Montblanc is sitting in the top drawer. I grab it, then tilt it toward the window - silver, smooth. The mark on the side hasn’t faded, not after all this time.
To anyone spinning tales while staring into the shadows.
Aria figured her words sounded deep. But truth? She had no clue what they really meant.
I put the pen aside, then grab the one I’ve actually been using. It’s just a basic ballpoint - no big deal at all.
I start writing.
Chapter Eighteen: The Detective's Dilemma
She gets it these days. Not every detail, just the bits she can't ignore. That pen came from someone else. A kind of trial run. Staying quiet about it worked out fine - she kept it close, played dumb, acted like its meaning wasn’t obvious all along.
Here’s where things get tough.
What does she do - speak up or stay quiet? Maybe she faces him, though that’s tough. Or perhaps she acts like nothing happened, while worry slowly takes over.
The truth? None of these options fit. Just that.
She’ll check things out - slow and steady. Without making noise. Searching for signs it isn’t him. That’s how love works, really. You twist facts a little… just enough so they match what you hope is true.
I pause what I’m doing, then take a look at the words again.
It's good. Honest.
I bend the edge of the paper, then shut the book.
A single sheet sits on the table - pale, four-sided, like the ones I stash away for moments when my head needs clearing.
I grab it, then begin to fold.
Split it down the center. Fold along the line. Angle it across. Press the fold.
My hands remember the way. No need to watch them work.
Once finished, I lift the crane. The creases stand out clean - just right there
I placed it by her side of the table.
She’ll notice it sooner or later. It could be now. Might be by dawn.
She’ll ask herself whether it’s been around forever or if I created it outta nothing.
Anyway, she’ll get that I’m keeping her in mind.
I spend the rest of the morning scribbling stuff down. Words flow smoothly this time - I haven’t been stuck like usual. When it clicks, I just go with it instead of pushing back.
By midday, I’d wrapped up chapter eighteen - then moved on to nineteen.
My phone vibrates. Then - message from my agent.
Grab your copy tomorrow evening - starts at seven. Head to Lighthouse Books, yeah? See you there.
I’ll remember. Every single time.
I reply with a thumbs-up then put the phone aside.
I’ll scribble my name on a hundred books. Grin while posing for snapshots. The tiny slice on my thumb? Nobody’s gonna spot it.
I wonder where Aria is at this moment. Maybe she’s walking somewhere quiet instead of rushing. It could be that she picked up that blue pen again after leaving here earlier. Or maybe not - hard to say what sticks in someone’s mind.
Yep, she definitely does.
She’s likely staring at it this very moment - flipping it around, maybe. One hand passes it to the other. Wondering how on earth it ended up here.
I slump into my seat, peeking through the glass.
Things are just right.
Before long, she’ll notice it as well.