Chapter 8 Olivia
Olivia
Idon’t know how long I sat on the floor.
The kitchen went dark around me, the shadows closing in until the room felt smaller, closer.
My legs had gone numb, a prickly static working its way up to my knees, but I didn't move. Moving would require a plan, and I didn't have one. I had spent eight years building a life on precision—calendars synced, meals planned, preferences archived.
It had taken a ten-second phone call to level it.
Ryan?
The voice echoed in the quiet house. Soft. Worried. Intimate.
I just want to know you’re okay.
Ryan’s phone sat on the granite above me. It was probably full of more missed calls by now. Texts that would go unread, and voice mails that would sit in a digital purgatory, waiting for a dead man to listen to them.
I pulled myself up using the cabinet handles, my muscles stiff and protesting.
The house was freezing. I hadn’t touched the thermostat since the police left on Friday, and the January chill had found its way through the double-paned windows, settling deep into the walls.
It felt like the house itself had died when Ryan did.
I stood there, swaying slightly, gripping the edge of the counter to ground myself.
I should call her back.
The thought was clinical. I should pick up the phone, press the call button, and tell this woman—this stranger—the truth.
Ryan was gone. The man she was looking for wouldn’t be returning her calls, and whatever conversation they were supposed to have, whatever "ending" was promised, had been preempted by a patch of black ice and a guardrail.
But I couldn't make my hand move. The idea of hearing her voice again, of confirming that she existed, made bile rise in my throat.
Instead, I turned to the cabinet above the sink.
I pushed aside the boxes of herbal tea and the vitamins Ryan swore by and reached for the bottle of whiskey he kept in the back.
It was an expensive single malt, something his sister had brought over for Christmas.
Ryan made a production of drinking it, swirling it in the glass, talking about peat and oak.
I hated whiskey, the smell and burn of it.
I unscrewed the cap anyway. The fumes hit me instantly, sharp and aggressive.
I didn't bother looking for a clean glass; the dishwasher was full of casserole dishes I hadn't unloaded.
I grabbed a coffee mug from the drying rack—one of the "World's Okayest Golfer" mugs I’d given Ryan as a joke—and poured until the liquid reached the rim of the cartoon golf ball.
I brought it to my lips, my hand trembling just enough to make the liquid shudder.
The knock at the door sounded like a gunshot.
I jumped, the mug jerking in my hand. Whiskey sloshed over the rim, splashing onto my fingers and dripping onto the hardwood floor.
"Shit," I hissed, setting the mug down hard. I wiped my wet hand on my jeans, the smell of alcohol suddenly overpowering, like I’d been caught doing something illicit.
The knock came again, louder this time. Three heavy thuds.
I walked through the dark hallway to the front door, my socks sliding on the cold wood. I expected a neighbor. Maybe Mrs. Henderson returning for her serving spoon, or the Millers dropping off yet another foil-wrapped lasagna, because apparently, carbohydrates were the only cure for widowhood.
I flipped the deadbolt and pulled the door open.
It wasn't a neighbor.
Ben Walsh stood on my porch.
He looked like he had been dragged through a demolition site. He was wearing his heavy Carhartt work jacket, the canvas dark with grease stains, and his jeans were coated in a fine layer of white dust. Drywall, or plaster. It clung to his boots, his cuffs, the stubble on his jaw.
The porch light had burned out three days ago—another thing Ryan usually took care of—but the streetlamp cast enough light for me to see his face. He looked wrecked. His eyes were sinking into dark hollows, and his mouth was set in a grim line that looked painful to hold.
He looked like the physical embodiment of the wreckage I felt inside.
"Olivia," he said. His voice was rough, like he’d been swallowing gravel.
We stared at each other. I hadn't seen Ben since the funeral, and before that, I hadn't seen him in months. He had been Ryan's shadow for a decade—best man, business confidant, fixture on our couch every Sunday. And then, abruptly, he wasn't.
Now, standing in the freezing night air, I looked at him and saw the weight he was carrying. The man was haunted. He couldn't quite meet my eyes. He looked past me, into the dark hallway, as if expecting Ryan to walk up behind me.
"I'm sorry," he said finally. He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, shivering slightly. "I got your text. I should've called. I just... I was on a job."
"You look it," I said. My voice was brittle, sharp enough to cut.
He flinched, just barely. "Can I come in?"
I thought about closing the door, telling him to go to hell, that he was six days too late. But the silence in the house was so loud I couldn't stand it anymore, and Ben—with his dust and his guilt—was the only person on earth who held the other half of the puzzle.
I stepped back and pulled the door wider.
He hesitated, scraping his boots on the mat with unnecessary force, trying to leave the mess outside. Then he stepped over the threshold. I closed the door against the wind and locked it.
"Kitchen," I said, walking past him.
I heard his heavy footsteps following me, the sound distinct and rhythmic, so different from Ryan’s long, loping stride.
The kitchen was still dark, lit only by the appliance LEDs. I didn't turn on the overheads. I didn't want him to see my swollen eyes or blotchy skin.
The mug of whiskey sat on the counter where I’d left it. I grabbed another mug—a plain white one this time—and poured.
"I'm good, Liv, I don't—"
"Drink," I said. I shoved the white mug across the granite toward him.
He looked at the mug, then at me. He seemed to realize that this wasn't a social call. This wasn't a drink between friends mourning a loss. This was an interrogation, and the whiskey was the only lubricant I had.
He picked it up. His hands were rough, calloused, the knuckles split from the cold and the work. The white dust of the construction site was ground into his skin, a stark contrast to the smooth ceramic.
"Cheers," I said, my voice dead flat.
I took a long swallow. It burned all the way down, but I welcomed it. At least it was a sensation I could name.
Ben didn't toast. He just drank, wincing slightly as the liquor hit his throat.
He set the mug down and leaned back against the island, crossing his arms over his chest. He looked out of place in my kitchen.
Ryan had designed this room—clean lines, minimalist aesthetic, pristine surfaces. Ben was grit and texture and noise.
"Tell me what you know," I said.
He sighed, a heavy exhale that seemed to deflate him. "Olivia..."
"Don't," I warned. "Don't give me the 'sorry for your loss' speech. Don't ask me how I'm holding up. Just tell me."
He stared into his mug, swirling the amber liquid. "I don't know where to start."
"Start anywhere," I said, leaning against the counter opposite him. "Why you disappeared for eight months. Why Ryan texted you on the day he died. What he was ending."
I paused, watching his face. He flinched at the mention of the text.
"Or," I said, lowering my voice, "you can start by telling me about the woman who called his phone tonight."
Ben’s head snapped up. The color drained from his face, leaving him looking sallow and gray under the microwave light. "She called?"
"She did." I picked up my mug again, needing something to do with my hands. "She left a text first. Asking if he was okay. Then she called. She sounded... scared, Ben. She said Ryan told her they needed to talk, and then he disappeared."
I took a step closer to him. "So tell me. Who is she?"
Ben ran a hand through his hair, dislodging a fine mist of drywall dust that drifted down to the floor.
"You deserve to know," he said quietly. "But Liv... once I say it, you can't unknow it. It changes everything. Are you sure you want to do this tonight?"
"Do I look like I have anything else to do tonight?" I gestured to the empty, silent house. "My husband is dead. I have his phone. I have his secrets. I just don't have the context."
He stared at me for a long beat. Then he nodded, accepting the inevitable.
He picked up the whiskey and drained it. He set the mug down with a clink that echoed in the silence.
"Her name is Lucia," he said. "Lucia Vance. She’s a developer. Real estate."
Lucia.
The name landed in the room like a stone dropped in still water. It was a beautiful name. Sophisticated even. It wasn't the name of a mistake; it was the name of a person.
"Lucia," I repeated, tasting the syllables. They tasted like ash. "And what was she to Ryan?"
Ben didn't look away this time. He owed me that much. "He was seeing her, Olivia."
He didn't use the word affair or cheating. He used the softer, vaguer phrase, but it didn't soften the blow.
He was seeing her.
I gripped the granite so hard my fingernails turned white.
"He was seeing her," I whispered.
"Yes."
"An affair."
"Yes."
I closed my eyes. I saw Ryan’s face—the way he looked on our honeymoon, the way he looked at me across the dinner table, the way he looked when he promised me forever.
And then I pictured him with a woman named Lucia. A faceless, beautiful developer. In my mind’s eye, he was touching her. Telling her things he’d once whispered into my ear.
"How long?" I asked. My voice sounded like it was coming from underwater. "How long did you know?"
Ben shifted his weight, looking down at his boots. "Since May. About eight months."
Eight months.
Almost a year.
Ryan had been living a double life for almost a year. He had come home to me, eaten dinner with me, slept in our bed, and all the while, he had been carrying this.
"How did you find out?" I asked. "Did he tell you?"