53. Chapter 53
Cate
Present
The house felt different when we got back.
Not wrong. Just… curated.
The lights were on even though it was still daylight, the blinds half-drawn the way Trevor preferred. The air smelled like coffee and furniture polish, familiar and grounding in a way that made my chest loosen despite itself.
Trevor set his keys down and immediately slipped into motion, moving through the space like it was already aligned to him.
“Shoes off,” he said gently, noticing the way I lingered by the door. “You look like you might tip over.”
“I’m fine,” I said automatically.
He smiled like he didn’t need to argue. “I know.”
He took my purse and set it on the counter, then guided me toward the couch with a hand at my elbow. Not pulling. Just steering.
I sat.
The quiet settled in around us. Not the thick, oppressive silence of the townhouse, but something softer. Contained.
“I ordered lunch,” he said. “It should be here in about twenty minutes.”
“Oh.” I hadn’t realized I was hungry. Or that I’d stopped paying attention to time altogether.
“You didn’t eat much yesterday,” he added. “Or this morning.”
I tried to remember if that was true. It probably was.
He sat across from me, leaning forward with his forearms on his knees, studying me the way someone studies weather patterns - alert for shifts, prepared for storms.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
I searched for the answer that felt the safest. “Tired.”
“That makes sense,” he said. “Anyone would be.”
He didn’t ask about John. He didn’t bring up the detective. He didn’t mention Seth.
I curled my fingers into the fabric of my shirt, grounding myself. “Two o’clock feels… soon.”
“It is soon,” he agreed easily. “But it’s also contained. Finite. We go in, answer what needs answering, and then it’s done.”
“I don’t want to say the wrong thing,” I admitted.
Trevor nodded like he’d expected that. “You won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do,” he said calmly. “Because the truth hasn’t changed.”
He stood and crossed the room, sitting beside me this time. Close, but not crowding. His knee brushed mine.
“You loved John,” he said quietly. “You waited for him. You grieved him. And when you couldn’t stay suspended in that grief anymore, you chose to live.”
I swallowed.
“That’s not a crime,” he continued. “It’s not suspicious. And it doesn’t need defending.”
I nodded slowly, letting his words settle.
“You don’t owe anyone an explanation for surviving,” he added.
Something in my chest softened at that.
He reached for my hand and squeezed once. “All you need to do today is stay present. I’ll handle the rest.”
The rest.
I thought of Seth then - his voice on the voicemail, tight with worry. The tension in his shoulders… Someone close.
The words brushed the edge of my mind, but I didn’t let them land.
“I should text Seth,” I said instead. “Just so he knows I’m okay.”
Trevor didn’t say no.
He just tilted his head slightly, considering. “You can,” he said. “But he’s already anxious. And anything you say right now is going to sound heavier than you mean it to.”
I hesitated.
“You don’t need to manage his feelings today,” he added gently. “You need to manage yours.”
That sounded reasonable. Responsible, even.
I nodded. “Okay.”
He smiled, relief flickering briefly across his face before he masked it. “Good.”
The doorbell rang then, sharp in the quiet.
“Lunch,” Trevor said, standing. “Perfect timing.”
He moved toward the door, leaving me on the couch with my thoughts and the strange, suspended feeling that had followed me since morning, like my life was being carefully packed into boxes I hadn’t labeled myself.
I looked down at my phone resting on the cushion beside me.
No new messages.
Seth hadn’t called again.
I told myself that was a good thing. That it meant he trusted me. That everyone was giving me space.
Trevor returned with a bag in hand, already talking about traffic and timing and where we should park downtown.
I listened. I nodded when appropriate. I ate because he put food in front of me, just like I had ten years ago, when all of this started. When I could no longer be trusted to take care of myself.