In the closet, below the fractured light from the chandelier, I marvel at the order and beauty of this room I took such pride in. When I first moved in, I converted this bedroom into a floor to ceiling dream closet—an entire floor in the house dedicated to me. My bedroom, bathroom suite, multiple closets, my home office…a dream. Only somehow my missteps have shattered the dream and locked me in a nightmare. The house is silent except for the hum of the heat and the faint creak of wood as it settles.
Dorian’s words echo: Be ready. They’ll come tonight or in the morning.
Back in my closet, I gather my purse, remove the jewelry from my wrists, slip my phone and charger inside. Little rituals of control. I line up the lipstick, the watch, the ring dish on the dresser—order I can still make. My body moves automatically, my mind drifts somewhere distant.
As if confirming all of my fears, red washes the ceiling. Then blue. Like sirens inside my body—red and blue pulsing through my veins..
Tremors strike.
But I pull it together.
Stella’s sleeping. They can’t wake her.
I grab the cosmetics bag, hang the suit for the arraignment on the rod where I always hang tomorrow’s outfit, setting the heels out too—and rush to the stairs.
Downstairs, Noah’s waiting—jacket on, phone in hand, eyes darker than I’ve ever seen them. Noah has the front door open—true to his word, they won’t need to ring the doorbell or knock loudly. Stella is asleep—tucked away on the third floor.
“They’re here,” he says quietly.
The muffled sound of voices. Footfalls on the path.
The detective who interrogated me—Detective Lassiter—smiles. The smile is slick and sure and the way his gaze travels judgmentally through my foyer makes it clear he believes he’s found a murderer—he believes he’s caught the bad guy and the streets are safer.
“Ms. Morgan, I see someone gave you a heads up.”
“Were you hoping to wake my daughter?”
He has the decency to drop his gaze. There’s no justice in involving the children.
“Alicia Morgan, you have the right to remain silent.”
As he reads me my Miranda rights, my throat constricts, as do my lungs, and I fight back a dizzy wave.
As one officer reads the warrant, the other asks for my hands.
The metal bites cold around my wrists. The hallway feels too bright. Stella doesn’t descend the stairs. Thank god.
“Don’t worry about the morning,” Noah says—his voice even, controlled. “She’ll think you’re at work.”
I meet his eyes, and something inside me steadies. “Take care of her.”
The detectives guide me out the door. The night air hits like ice. A car passing slows, watching the scene unfold. Someone’s always watching.
They lead me into the police car, the door shuts, and the sound echoes like the end of a chapter I never meant to write.
The ventilation system hums, a low metallic throb that vibrates through concrete walls. Each pulse feels like it’s syncing with my heartbeat—mechanical, relentless.
No windows. No clocks. Just the sterile smell of bleach and burnt coffee.
I’m sitting in a chair that’s too hard and too cold, spine straight, like posture delivers dignity. The detective who escorted me here has been gone for—ten minutes? Twenty? Time doesn’t move in real minutes down here; it stretches and folds until it becomes thought itself.
When they booked me, I counted each step like it was evidence.
Shoes off. Belt removed. Watch unclasped and dropped in a tray. Smile, Ms. Morgan.
The camera flash had felt obscene, a burst of light that stole something private. The after image still burns behind my eyelids.
Now I wait, fingers curled tight around the armrest, fighting the urge to pace.