CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
I always loved the drive home.
Tristan’s truck rumbled beneath me, steady and familiar, the cab still carrying the scent of cedar and solder from his last job. He’d let me use it while he carpooled with his workmates—said it made more sense, but I knew he just wanted me to feel like I had my own way home.
The gravel road curved gently, framed by trees that had begun to color with the first signs of fall. I rolled down the window and let the wind tangle in my hair. The sky was softening into dusk, beautiful and dreamy.
And then I saw it—our home.
The log house appeared at the end of the road, tucked behind the trees.
It was beautiful in a way that made my chest ache.
Isolated, yes, but not lonely. The backyard was a tangle of mature fruit trees and blackberry canes—apples, pears, dark berries spilling along the fence.
I’d picked them just last week and made a pie that Tristan swore tasted like something his father would’ve made.
I’d laughed, but I’d cried a little too, when he wasn’t looking.
The lights were on.
I pulled into the driveway and stepped out. The scent of steak drifted through the air, rich and smoky. My heart lifted and my stomach growled. He was cooking. Probably barefoot in the kitchen, humming something catchy while he got our plates ready. I smiled, already picturing it.
But just as I reached the door, something shifted.
A chill ran through me. It felt sharp, sudden, like a thread pulled tight in my chest. I paused, hand hovering over the knob. The feeling reminded me of the butterfly earlier, how it had landed on my palm, how I’d felt something stir beneath the surface.
I shook it off.
Just nerves from a strange day.
Inside, the lounge room was quiet.
Too quiet.
My eyes caught rose petals straightaway. They trailed across the floor in a soft, deliberate path, leading out of the room and down the wide corridor toward the kitchen.
I smiled, though something about them felt strange. Tristan could be romantic, but not usually like this.
I followed them, heart fluttering, steps slow.
The kitchen was warm, the sliding door to the backyard cracked open.
The kitchen surfaces were cluttered with dishes, utensils, and the pan Tristan always used for steak.
Candlelight flickered outside, drawing my attention and casting golden shadows across the patio.
I stepped out.
“Tristan?”
He didn’t answer.
The table was set. Candles. A folded envelope rested in the center. I reached for it, wondering what sweet words would be written.
“Tristan?” I called out again and I opened it. “Where—”
I pulled out a photo and froze, my heart speeding up.
It was my wedding photo. I blinked several times, waiting for my brain to register what I was seeing.
Me, Oliver, and Rowe.
But something was wrong.
Horribly wrong.
There were holes—cutouts where faces should be.
Rowe’s face was gone.
So was mine.
My blood turned to ice.
I looked up, scanning the backyard. The trees. The shadows. The silence.
Oliver was here.
A groan broke the stillness.
I turned toward the sound, heart pounding, feet moving before thought could catch up. Deeper into the yard, past the fruit trees, I found him.
Tristan.
Collapsed on the ground, barely breathing. His shirt soaked in blood. A kitchen knife lay beside him, smeared and glinting in the candlelight.
“No,” I whispered, dropping to my knees. “No, no, no.”
I reached for him, hands trembling, tears already spilling. He tried to speak, but only a rasp came out. I pressed my hand to his chest, trying to stop the bleeding, trying to hold him together. I fumbled for my phone, ready to call for help—
Then the shot rang out.
Pain exploded through my chest. I staggered, breath stolen, vision tilting. The world spun, the candlelight blurring into stars. I fell beside him, my hand brushing his, the rose petals scattered around us.
I couldn’t breathe.
The pain was sharp at first—like fire licking through my chest—then it dulled, spreading outward in waves that made everything feel distant. My limbs were heavy. My thoughts, slower. I lay on the ground, the damp earth pressing into my back, the candlelight flickering somewhere near.
I tried to move.
Tried to scream.
But all that came was a gasp, wet and broken.
I saw him just then.
Oliver.
He stumbled into view from the shadows, his body swaying as though he’d been scraped out. Blood streaked his shirt, his hands, his face. One hand was clamped against his side, but it wasn’t stopping whatever Tristan had done to him.
For a moment, he hardly looked human.
His eyes met mine, and I froze. There was nothing in them. No rage. No sorrow.
Just a terrifying, bottomless absence.
He had come here knowing none of us would leave. He didn’t speak. Didn’t reach for me.
He just stared.
Then he swayed once. The gun slipped from his hand and struck the ground beside him.
He collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut. The sound of his body hitting the ground was soft, almost gentle.
Tristan had fought.
I could see it now. The knife. The blood. The way Oliver’s body had collapsed. My heart ached with love and fury and grief. Tristan had tried to protect me.
He always did.
I tried to get closer to him. My fingers clawed at the grass, but my body wouldn’t follow. I could only reach out—just my hand, trembling, desperate.
The sky above was darkening fast. The trees swayed gently. My vision blurred, then sharpened, then blurred again. I blinked hard, trying to hold on.
And then it happened.
A flickering.
A butterfly came into view, fluttering around me before landing on my palm.
Its wings pulsed slowly, like breath. Like life. Amber and indigo, just like before.
Just like this morning.
A thought moved through me, though it didn’t feel entirely like mine.
I’ve seen you many times before.
It settled there, and I stared at it through the blur of tears and fading light.
The world narrowed. The pain receded. I could feel my heartbeat slowing, each thud softer than the last.
I thought of Oliver.
Of Rowe.
Of the photo.
Of everything I’d run from.
And in that final moment, I knew.
I shouldn’t have run.
I shouldn’t have run.
I should have—
The butterfly stayed with me as the light slipped away. Its wings opened once more.
So thirsty.
So cold.
I couldn’t breathe.
The blackness took over my vision as my last thought raced through me.
I should have fought back.