Chapter 16 Estella #3
A strawberry gummy bear melts on my tongue as I chew, the artificial sweetness coating the taste of ink and paper that lingers in the air.
My fingers trail over the slightly yellowed sheets, tracing the faded type as my feet dangle off the chair, crossing and uncrossing absently.
I’ve been rereading the same paragraph for what feels like an eternity, each repetition twisting the words into something new.
Heavy, layered, relentless theories build in my mind like storm clouds. The file is full of broken facts that refuse to fit together, and what I know from Dante himself is even more fragile, like ancient parchment crumbling under too much pressure.
Take his parents, for example. The file labels him an orphan, nothing more. No names, no records. From what he told me, he killed them, but the file doesn’t even include a description of that. It’s maddening, and yet, at the same time, that void gives me room to breathe, to imagine, to theorize.
There’s always a reason. There has to be.
I’m not sure if people are born evil. I’ve thought about it too many times to count, and I still can’t find an answer that satisfies me. Maybe it’s not something you’re born with—maybe it’s something that grows, like a seed you never planted but that takes root anyway.
When I think back to my own childhood, I remember being impulsive, wild in ways that didn’t make sense even to me.
When my parents punished me, I remember feeling nothing.
Not anger, not guilt, not even fear. Just…
emptiness. Like someone had tied chains around my tongue, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t say I was sorry.
I couldn’t care. I just stood there, absorbing their disappointment in silence.
They told me I was bad, wrong, and broken, and I certainly was. I did things I shouldn’t have done, not because I wanted to hurt anyone, but because I didn’t understand why I shouldn’t.
I never wanted to kill anyone at first. Not until I grew older.
Sometimes, when insomnia digs its claws into me, I wonder what would’ve happened if things had been different. If someone had tried harder. If love could’ve changed me, softened the sharp edges, rewired something in my head. Maybe I could’ve learned how to be normal.
But I guess we’ll never know that.
Dante’s parents were assholes—I’m sure of it. I saw it in his eyes the first time he talked about them, back when we started working together. That flutter told me everything words couldn’t.
The way he described killing them didn’t carry the hollow chill of indifference, the numb detachment of someone recounting a story from another life.
There was a rhythm to it, a cadence that hinted at something earned, something carved out of necessity and choice rather than chaos.
I can feel the reasoning pressing beneath the surface, a dark logic that demands to be understood.
And I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t the thing that gnaws at me most fiercely, clawing at my mind with a persistent, insatiable curiosity that refuses to be soothed.
What was his childhood like? Was he bullied? Did he fight back? What kind of grades did he get? Did he ever have a true friend who didn’t end up betraying him?
The questions spiral in my mind, a violent whirlpool dragging me under, each new thought crashing against the next until I can barely breathe beneath their weight.
I wonder how much of him mirrors me.
My fingers slide toward his photo, the edges of the paper soft under my touch.
I trace the faint texture of the printed image, brushing my fingertips over the shape of his face.
The photo Cane picked is almost absurd—Dante in a prison guard uniform, that ridiculous fake mustache sitting above a mouth that looks like it’s seconds away from curling into a smirk.
A bad disguise for a man too sharp to hide.
My touch lingers, brushing over his lips, tracing the angle of his jaw.
Without the full beard, he looks younger—disarmingly so.
But with it, he looks exactly his age, maybe even older.
Weathered by experience, hardened by something deeper.
And that stirs a strange, magnetic pull that tightens deep in my core.
A knock at the door snaps me out of my thoughts. I jolt upright as if the mattress suddenly caught fire, the heat in my cheeks burning through the cool air. For a second, I freeze, wondering if I imagined it. But the knock comes again.
I scramble to collect the papers, shoving them into the folder with frantic precision. Flipping it over, I make sure his name faces down against the bedspread. Another knock echoes through the space, and I rake my fingers through my hair, trying to tame the mess.
My eyes flick to the window. The moonlight spills through the glass in soft, eerie ribbons, bathing the room in a milky haze that makes everything feel suspended. I blink, realizing how many hours have passed since I first opened his file.
By the time I reach the door, my pulse is uneven—a mixture of guilt and anticipation pounding inside me. I unlock it, grip the cold metal handle, and pull it open.
A gust of cold air rushes in, biting against my skin, teasing goosebumps across my arms. The chill cuts through me, but beneath it, my cheeks still burn, betraying the warmth that refuses to fade.
My gaze falls on a man standing in the doorway—early thirties, perhaps, his hair hidden under a baseball cap. He wears a sporty red-and-black jacket that glints faintly under the hallway light, paired with black sweatpants, his posture slouched.
“Estella, am I correct?” he asks, voice clipped, already holding out a stack of papers and a pen toward me. “Sign here,” he adds before I can even answer.
My brows knit together in suspicion. “I didn’t order anything.”
Only then do I notice the boxes at his feet—three of them, matte black, unmarked, no sender’s name, no message. They sit in perfect alignment, like something staged for a photograph.
The man exhales, impatient, his outstretched hand trembling faintly as if he’s been standing here too long. “I was told to deliver the packages,” he says flatly. “Please sign here.”
I snatch the papers and the pen from his grip, my eyes scanning the form until I find my name. The tip of the pen squeaks faintly as I scrawl a messy, uneven signature—a perfect reflection of the chaos in my head.
Confusion. Disorientation. A faint, inexplicable unease.
“Thanks. Have a good night,” he mutters mechanically before turning around and walking across the dim hallway, his silhouette swallowed by the cold light that drips through the dusty windowpanes.
I watch him until all that’s left is the echo of his steps and the faint flicker of movement at the end of the hallway.
My focus drifts back to the boxes. Kneeling, I press my palms against the side of the first one and lift, surprised when it rises with almost no effort. Lighter than it looks. I give it a gentle shake beside my ear, hearing a faint rustle, something soft shifting inside.
I stack the boxes in my arms until their sharp edges dig into my skin. I barely notice the sting, curiosity drowning everything else as I haul them inside, shutting the door with my foot.
Walking to the bedroom, I set the boxes down on the bed, and the mattress gives a soft bounce beneath the weight. Crawling up beside them, I tuck one leg under me and reach for the top box. My fingers slide under the lid, and I lift.
My gaze fixes on the pinkish paper, its surface catching the dim moonlight in faint, teasing glimmers. The color seems almost alive—rich and vivid, holding a promise I can’t yet name. I move the lid carefully, set it aside, and lean in, the air around me thick with anticipation.
A shiver snakes down my spine as I begin to peel back the paper.
Nestled inside, perfectly arranged, is a piece of clothing, its deep color and luxurious texture calling to be touched.
And beside it, a slender bottle of perfume rests, the glass catching the light in soft, trembling sparks, like champagne caught beneath the glow of candlelight.
The sight alone makes the air feel heavier, charged, almost intoxicating, as though the contents of this small package carry more than just scent and fabric.
My gaze catches on the label, the elegant script curling across it in soft gold letters.
étoile Noire. Black Star.
Slowly, I grab the bottle and twirl it between my fingers, letting the moonlight play across its surface.
It’s mid-sized and round, cut like a precious gem—each faceted angle glinting with silvery reflections that shimmer against the smoky, champagne-colored glass.
The teardrop-shaped indents catch the light and scatter it in delicate patterns across my hands, giving the bottle a distinctly feminine grace, fragile yet commanding.
On top sits a square black cap framed in gold, glimmering faintly like jewelry in the dimness.
The glass feels impossibly smooth—cool and heavy, gliding against my skin like silk. My fingers trace the curves, mesmerized by its craftsmanship, by the way it seems to breathe elegance.
Impatience building, I twist the lid off and tilt my head back, baring my throat to the air. My finger finds the sprayer, and with a soft press, the perfume mists against my neck. Droplets settle on my skin, cold for an instant before dissolving into warmth.
I close my eyes and inhale.
The scent floods my senses, dizzying, exquisite—a heady sweetness laced with the bite of pear and the earthiness of patchouli, tangled with the faint hum of rain-soaked wood. A whisper of caramel drifts beneath it all, soft and fucking addictive.