Chapter 35 The Aftermath
the aftermath [trope]
the chaotic whirlwind that follows a breakup, where our protagonists navigate the emotional fallout like a pair of lost puppies in a thunderstorm, and possibly with a new haircut
It’s been five days since Rafael and I said our goodbyes. Five days of silence, of waking up to an empty bed, of going through the motions, feeling nothing at all.
The trial was postponed to Friday, which is good, because Ethan won’t answer my calls—or anybody’s, really. Jace tells me he’s okay, that he just needs time. How much time? No idea.
I sit curled up on the couch, the remnants of a cold cup of coffee on the table beside me. The TV is on, but I’m not watching it—just another noise to fill the quiet.
A soft thump draws my attention, and I turn to see Sherlock padding down the stairs, his tail flicking lazily behind him.
I purse my lips, annoyed at his indifference after having been gone all night and day.
He hops onto the couch, his tiny weight settling against my side as he curls up, purring softly.
“You know this isn’t a hotel, right?” I murmur, scratching behind his ears. “I haven’t seen you since yesterday.”
He blinks at me, his yellow eyes unbothered, as if to say, I have my own life, thank you very much.
When I touch his collar, I find myself holding the tracking device Rafael gave me. Reminded about the camera, I reach for my phone, saying, “I think it’s finally time we find out where the hell you’re escaping from.”
I open the app, a small pang of pain hitting me at the thought of Rafael, who helped me set it up. The screen lights up, showing a dotted line that crosses the town. My brow furrows as I zoom in.
“What the hell, Sherlock?” I scold half-heartedly.
The map shows him wandering near Rafael’s house earlier today before heading back to mine. A flicker of something—morbid curiosity, maybe—makes me tap the camera icon. It takes a second to load, the grainy image jiggling, but when the video clears, I see the familiar exterior of Rafael’s house.
My chest tightens as I catch a brief glimpse of movement—Rafael, standing on his porch, talking to someone I can’t see. His hands are stuffed into his pockets, his head tilted slightly as he listens. He looks… normal. Like nothing has happened. Like he’s fine.
I slam the phone down onto the cushion beside me, the image burned into my mind.
I can’t believe Sherlock recorded him. What else did he catch?
I unlock my phone again and continue playing the feed. I swipe back to earlier in the day, setting the speed to 2x. The shaky image bounces with each of Sherlock’s steps, and I can only make out snippets of the neighborhood.
There seems to be nothing relevant, except yet another visit to Sherlock’s dog lover, so I go even further back, catching more than one feline fight, several people trying to approach him, and a few familiar faces—until the camera shows the view through my kitchen window, looking out at Mrs. Prattle’s house across the street.
I can see Sherlock’s reflection, perched on the windowsill, his tail curling as he observes the quiet neighborhood.
The camera shakes, as if something caught Sherlock’s attention, and it picks up a figure moving across Mrs. Prattle’s yard.
I pause the footage, staring at the screen. The figure is bent down, fiddling with something on the ground. When they stand and walk away, the camera catches it clearly: a broken gnome lying in the grass.
My heart pounds as I remember the police report. Vanessa knocked over the garden gnome when she went back to the crime scene.
The timestamp on the footage matches the report, twelve days ago.
The figure turns around just long enough for the grainy image to offer a hint of their identity.
But it’s not Vanessa. It’s a man wearing a hoodie pulled low over his face.
Even with the poor quality, I recognize the walk, the slight hunch in his shoulders, the way his right foot turns out slightly with every step.
Quentin.
I rewind the footage. Watching again, frame by frame, it’s unmistakable. It’s him, coming out of Mrs. Prattle’s house, of a sealed crime scene.
Could we have it wrong? Could Vanessa not be the killer?
My phone rings, pulling me from my haze, and I glance at the screen and see Paige’s name. A part of me wants to ignore it, to stay cocooned in this numbness, but I know she needs me more than she’s letting on.
“Hey,” I say as I pick up.
“Hi. It’s good to hear your voice. How are you holding up?”
I swallow hard, trying to keep my voice steady. “I’m… managing. You?”
“You know. We’re coping differently,” she says with a laugh. By “coping differently,” she means that I’ve isolated myself, as opposed to the way she’s thrown herself into work, hobbies, and casual sex. “Have you heard from Ethan?”
The question twists the knife in my chest a little deeper. “No. He’s still not answering my calls. I’ve left messages, sent texts… Nothing.”
She sighs. “He’ll come around. I’m sure he will.”
“Yeah. I hope so,” I say, though really, time’s almost up. We’re supposed to be back at court on Friday, and Steve was clear: after that shit show, if Ethan doesn’t show up, I’m done. I’ll lose the case.
There’s another pause, this one longer, before Paige speaks again. “Have you gone out at all? I know you’ve been taking time off work, but everyone’s worried about you. You’ve been holed up in that house for days.”
That’s because of who is right outside.
“I’m fine,” I say quickly, too quickly.
“No, you’re not. You’re going to have to leave the house at some point, you know?”
“I’ve been busy,” I lie. “But I’ll be in court Friday, and back to work on Monday.”
“Tell me you haven’t been staring out that window for five days,” she says in a sharp voice. “Tell me convincingly.”
“I haven’t.” Another lie. I have been watching. I’ve been noting when he leaves the house, when he comes back. He’s had people over, women, too, has been going out at night, living his life like nothing happened. Like we never happened.
Two days ago, I ordered food, and when I opened the door to collect it, Rafael was leaving his house. He didn’t even glance in my direction, and I keep telling myself he didn’t see me, but deep down, I know he did. He just didn’t acknowledge me.
Paige sighs, like she knows I’m lying. “Scarlett, you know I understand heartache more than anyone, but a breakup doesn’t stop the world from spinning.”
I know she’s right, but it feels like everything has stopped. Facing the courthouse again, seeing Ethan’s hurt and anger, feels impossible. The weight of it all is suffocating, and the only thing I’ve been able to do is sit in this house and pretend the world outside doesn’t exist.
“Look, I… I didn’t want to tell you this, but I don’t know what else to do.”
My stomach drops. “What do you mean?”
“Rafael…” she says softly. “Rafael sold the house.”
“What?”
“I figured he’d tell you eventually,” she continues, her voice gentle. “But, um, he’s leaving.”
I can’t breathe. My mind races, trying to make sense of her words. “He sold the house? When? Leaving where?”
“Just today. Scarlett, I’m telling you this because you should move on, too. He’s doing it.”
I clutch the couch cushion, trying to steady myself. This makes no sense. He never spoke about wanting to sell the house, and now he’s done it in five days? “Why?” I ask, more to myself than to her. “He didn’t even tell me,” I insist. “And now he’s just leaving?”
“Scarlett—”
“I have to go,” I say, ending the call before she can respond.
The silence in the house feels suffocating now, and my pulse pounds in my ears. He’s leaving. He’s cutting ties, erasing me. The realization claws at my chest, leaving me raw and breathless.
My gaze shifts to the window, to his house next door. The thought of him packing up, walking out of my life forever, ignites something inside me.
No. Like hell I’ll let him go without saying goodbye.
My knuckles tremble as I knock on Rafael’s door. The wood feels solid, unyielding beneath my touch, so different from the way I feel inside—cracked open, bleeding, barely holding together. I hear footsteps on the other side, and when the door swings open, the sight of him nearly undoes me.
His dark hair is wet, falling just above his intense gray eyes, and he’s wearing black sweatpants. They sit low on his hips, hanging loosely, and the matching worn T-shirt clings slightly to his broad shoulders and chest.
His face falls the moment he sees me. “Scarlett,” he says, his voice breathy. “Is everything okay?”
“Were you going to tell me?” I blurt out.
“What?”
“You sold the house.”
His lips part, and he looks down with a groan. “Fucking small-town bullshit,” he mumbles. “It happened two hours ago. Seriously, how—”
I swallow the lump in my throat, my heart pounding against my ribs. “Were you going to tell me or not?”
“Yes, of course I was. Scarlett, this was always part of the plan, okay? I’ve been staying here because of… well, you, but this house was never supposed to be a permanent solution. This is the place I spent the first twenty-one years of my life hating.”
He’s right, of course. But I’ve got too much pent-up anger now. “Where are you going, then?”
He pauses, as if trying to find the right words. “Scarlett, me leaving town makes your life easier.”
“Really? That’s how much I meant to you?” I snap. The casual dismissal of what we had, what we were, has tears blurring my vision, and I swipe at them angrily. “Five days after our breakup, you’re moving on?”
“Don’t say that,” he says, his voice rough. “Don’t imply that anything I said wasn’t the truth, that I’m not hurting. You have no fucking right to do that.”
“But you have the right to ignore me?” I hate how vulnerable I sound, but I can’t help it. “To have women come and go at all hours—”
“Prospective buyers.”
“—and to go on with your life, and talk, and work, while I’m there mourning the love story of my life?”
His anger dissipates in an instant, his expression softening into something that breaks my heart all over again.
His mouth opens, but no words come out, and I realize I’ve said something I can’t take back.
I can’t believe I said it like that—that I called it a love story through tears and anger, lashing out like a wounded animal.
“I’m not over anything, Scarlett,” he finally says.
“I’m hurting. I’m breaking into pieces. I hate my life, and I hate this house, and I hate knowing you’re there, because I can’t come to you.
It’s driving me insane. I hate seeing you not leave the house because you’re hurting, and not knowing exactly how much you’re hurting, and not being able to do shit to make you feel better anyway. ”
I try to hold back the sobs, but it’s no use. All I want to do is throw myself into his arms. He steps forward and wraps me in his embrace, pulling me against him.
I cling to him, burying my face in his chest, his warmth the only thing keeping me from collapsing entirely.
“I have to leave, Scarlett,” he pleads. “I need you to be okay, to move on. And you can’t do that if I’m here, if you’re afraid of running into me every time you leave the house.”
We stand there for what feels like forever, my tears soaking into his shirt, his hand stroking my hair as if he’s trying to memorize the feel of it.
I can’t let him go. I don’t know how to.
Eventually, I calm down, my sobs turning into quiet, shuddering breaths. He leans back, and I see the tears on his cheeks matching mine. He wipes my cheek, his touch gentle, and I wish I could freeze this moment, hold on to him for just a little longer.
“How’s Ethan? I heard the hearing was rescheduled.”
I press my lips together in a tight line, feeling the weight of another worry pressing down on me. “I don’t know if he’ll show up. He won’t talk to me. I’m really trying, but…”
Rafael’s brow furrows. “He will, Scarlett. He knows how important this is. He’ll be there.”
I want to believe him, but doubt gnaws at me. “I miss you.”
His eyes close briefly, as if my words are too much to bear. “I miss you more,” he breathes. “But you should go. God forbid that jackal lawyer or one of his spies sees us together.”
He’s right, and even though it feels like the hardest thing I’ve ever done, I slowly, reluctantly pull away from him.
“Rafael,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I saw something, and I know Vanessa is a good fit for these murders, but…”
“What did you see?” he asks, brows furrowed.
“Remember the camera you got me for Sherlock?”
He nods.
“Well, he was home the day after Rob’s murder, and the camera caught Quentin tripping over the gnome in Mrs. Prattle’s yard.”
His chin jerks back. “Quentin?”
“Yeah. And I thought, maybe we just assumed it was the killer who did it, while it was actually Quentin who accidentally broke the gnome. But—”
“But why wouldn’t Quentin have said something? Why would he have been at the crime scene?”
“Exactly.”
He sighs, gaze lost in the distance. “He’s been at two crime scenes the same night the murders took place, and… he did lie about our encounter.”
“Uh-huh,” I agree, relieved I’m not the only one seeing it. “The only thing I can’t put together yet is why. Why would Quentin do it?”
Rafael thinks for a long moment, then clicks his tongue. “To be honest with you, I doubt he’s ever read a book outside of the classroom.” He tilts his head. “Or inside.”
No kidding—he’s always been baffled by my love for reading. “Movies are so much better” and whatnot. And what would be his motive? He might not be pleased with me, but he certainly doesn’t hate me enough to frame me for murder.
“I don’t see it, honestly. But if you think—”
“Nah.” I wave the thought away. “I actually agree with you for once.”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
I watch the hint of a smirk playing on his lips and smile back, though it feels nothing like happiness. “Rafael Gray, always flirting.”
“Only with you.”
His finger lingers on my cheek, as if he can’t quite let go, either, but then he drops it, and the loss of his touch feels like a physical blow. “Remember what you said in the letter, okay?”
“No romance ends without a happily ever after?”
He shakes his head. “Impossible.”
Impossible.
“Bye, Gray,” I whisper.
“Bye, Freckles,” he says back.
I turn and walk away, each step heavier than the last, until I’m out of his sight. I don’t look back, because I know if I do, I’ll run to him, and this time I might not have the strength to leave.
He’s right.
This is not the end.