Chapter 19 The Timeline Collision #2
I don’t even realize I’m holding my breath until Rafael sets a steaming mug in front of me, startling me into a sharp inhale.
The scent of coffee mingles with that of his cologne—a warm, woodsy scent that used to make me feel safe.
Now it’s just another reminder of how deeply he’s infiltrated my life.
“Here. This’ll help,” he says carefully, like he’s afraid I might shatter if he speaks too loudly.
My hands tighten around the mug, and I fix my eyes on the chipped edge of the table without thanking him.
“How are you feeling?”
I finally look up with a glare. “Like someone I trusted just pointed a gun at me.”
His face tightens, the faintest flicker of regret crossing his features. He drags a chair next to mine and sits so close our knees almost touch, and I instinctively roll my chair back an inch, the scrape of the wooden legs loud in the suffocating silence.
“Scarlett, the police have protocols,” he pleads. “A suspect holding a weapon is a threat. If I hadn’t kept my gun on you, they would’ve stormed in, and I needed time to get you to admit you had nothing to do with these murders.”
I still can’t wrap my head around the fact that I was their main suspect. “Why didn’t they question me? Why didn’t Vanessa tell me anything?”
He exhales. “The chief kept her out of the loop, since you two are close. He was investigating you, but didn’t want to question you until they had further proof—look, don’t get me started on this. Dealing with these cops makes me miss the city.”
“How long have you been working on this case?”
His mouth opens, then closes. It’s as good as a confession.
Everything since the Single Mingle has been a lie.
Knuckles turning white around the mug, I say, “Just tell me why you brought me here.”
“Okay.” He wipes away beads of sweat glistening on his forehead, then pulls a paper from the pile in front of him. My stomach twists when he slides it across the table. It’s a receipt for an online flower purchase made in my name.
“What’s this about? I didn’t buy flowers.”
“You also signed for the delivery.” He hands me another paper, this one showing a scrawled signature that looks remarkably like mine. “These flowers were used in the first murder.”
He holds up a picture but hesitates as he studies me.
“Let me see.”
“You don’t have to, if you—”
“Yes, I do,” I insist.
He hesitates again before laying the photo on the table. I glance at it. Catherine’s naked body is rigid over the chair, her wrists tied together behind her back. Her skin is unnaturally yellow, and the red petals contrast even more against it. I turn my face away, my stomach churning.
Rafael quickly snatches the photo back, but I raise a trembling hand. “It’s fine. I can do it.”
He sets it down again, watching me closely. It’s horrifying, enraging. Someone did this to her—and is doing this to me, twisting my life into their macabre little masterpiece.
“There’s more,” Rafael says, scrolling through a tablet, then showing me a screenshot of the post on Reddit. “Look at this.”
Reading-fictional-murders? “That’s not my account,” I say.
“It was posted from your laptop.”
“That’s impossible,” I say, shaking my head. “I always have my laptop with me.”
Rafael’s nod is stiff. “I know. Look, I’m working on it, okay? I don’t want you to worry. I promise I’ll find out who’s behind it.”
A bitter laugh bubbles in my throat. Again with that word—promise. Does he seriously think it means anything now?
“I don’t get it,” I say. “You showed up exactly when these murders began. And your dad just happens to—” My lips seal shut. His dad had a stroke—I read the obituary on the Whistle. Could it have been foul play?
“Poison.” He brushes an imaginary speck of dust from the soft-looking turtleneck. “The police had no reason to suspect foul play. An old man dying of stroke alone in his home? Pretty normal. But they found a letter of apology addressed to me.”
“The Lonely Man,” I whisper, reminded of the book I discussed on the podcast just before Mr. Gray’s death. “Wait, but the press didn’t say anything. The police didn’t—”
“Chief Donovan didn’t believe me at first. After Catherine Blake’s murder, when you visited the chief, they went back to look at the case.”
He gestures at a piece of paper. I take it and read:
Upon reevaluation, toxicology screening detected trace amounts of digitalis (commonly found in foxglove). The concentration in the bloodstream suggests intentional ingestion. No prescribed medication or medical condition accounted for this.
“You okay?” he asks, his hand reaching for me but dropping before he can actually touch me.
Am I okay? My mouth is filling with saliva quicker than I can swallow it, and cold sweat is accumulating over my lips. “I think I’ll go home now.”
“I’ll walk you.”
I study him for a long moment, seething at how damn good he looks right now. Angry that I can’t even enjoy it. Furious that some traitorous part of me still wants him to stay the night. And enraged that he did this to me.
I shake my head. “It’s okay,” I say coldly, slinging my bag over my shoulder. “I don’t need you to.”
“Scarlett…”
“What happens if the actual murderer shows up at the library tonight?” I ask, walking past him.
“Uh, there are a couple of officers stationed outside, but…” He glances at his watch. “I doubt anyone will show up.”
Why, though? How could the killer have known that tonight’s episode was just a ruse to catch them? Maybe they noticed the police. Goddamn it. How is the killer always one step ahead?
“Let me walk you home,” Rafael insists as he comes to my side.
With a glare, I rush to the entrance, then out the door. The air outside is cool against my flushed cheeks, but the ache in my chest doesn’t ease. Not even a little.
“Scarlett, wait.” His voice chases me down, sharper than the night air nipping at my skin.
My steps quicken, but so do his.
“I know you’re disappointed.” He’s by my side now, his breath fogging in the cold.
“But I knew you weren’t guilty, Scarlett, and I had to prove it.
That’s why I’m here, why I came to Willowbrook—not for that asshole who was my dad.
You have to understand. Sometimes the police don’t care about the truth.
They just want a neat story, a suspect who fits their narrative.
And I knew it was just a matter of time before they connected the murders to the podcast. To you. ”
And how did he know to look into my podcast after he’d been gone for five years? Actually, forget about it. That’s not the point.
“Not me, though,” he presses. “I knew you had nothing to do with this, and I’ve proven it. I’ll catch the real killer, and—”
I whirl around, my boots crunching against the gravel.
“That’s not the problem!” I shout, my voice sharp in the otherwise silent neighborhood.
“You told me, didn’t you? Since the beginning, you said you were here for the wrong reasons.
You blamed it on Dave, Lucas, some stupid bet—but you told me. And you warned me you were trouble.”
“That was…” Rafael’s shoulders slump, his face pale under the glow of the streetlamp. His hair hangs over his eyes, but not enough to hide his pained expression. “I couldn’t tell you,” he says quietly. “I didn’t want things between us to move forward until I did.”
“Uh-uh!” I raise a finger, a grimace twisting my lips.
“You don’t get to talk. You don’t get to explain, or justify, or make this all better.
You get to live with it. With the fact that you lied.
That there will be nothing else. Not even a hello if we pass each other on the street.
No Chinese food, no Macarena, no sleeping over.
Nothing.” My voice shakes, but I force it out anyway. “That these are my last words to you.”
The silence is deafening. His gaze drops to the ground, his lips tightening into a grim line. It makes a dull ache settle in my chest—seeing him like this, knowing I’m responsible for his suffering.
But he deserves worse.
“You know, if this is the best version of yourself, then I’m sure my dad would agree with me when I say… I wish you hadn’t come back at all.”
He blinks, eyes watering, and immediately, I hate myself for saying that. Yes, I feel betrayed, but no one deserves the kind of hurt I see in his expression.
Before I can fold and apologize, I walk away with purposeful steps. My place is only a few feet away, but the distance feels endless. By the time I walk up onto the porch, my hands are trembling so badly I nearly drop the keys, especially as the tears come hot and fast, blurring my vision.
I slam the door shut, the sound reverberating like the finality of everything I just said, and as I let the first sob out, the realization settles over me: this isn’t the only door closing.
No. I’m closing every door.
And this time, it’s for good.