Chapter 50 - Stella #2
“Widow,” Elaine says by way of greeting, voice low and unhurried. I can hear faint music in the background, the kind you only get from a bar with more bottles than customers.
“Is this a business call?” I ask, leaning against the kitchen counter.
“Could be. Depends on how you define business.”
I can almost picture her smirk, the way her lipstick probably hasn’t worn off entirely. “Then enlighten me.”
She exhales, a sound halfway between a sigh and a laugh. “I was going through my notes, trying to connect a few dots, and realized you’d already done half the work I was about to waste my night on. Figured that earned you a drink.”
“Now?”
“Unless you’re busy.”
I glance at the papers spread across my table—Donovan's schedule, the phone logs, the half-empty wine glass. “Not anymore.”
There’s a pause on her end, but it’s warm, not awkward. “Good. I’ll text you the address.”
Before she hangs up, I catch the faint clink of glass against glass, and then: “Wear something that makes you look like you’re not planning a felony.”
The line clicks dead before I can answer.
It’s a meeting. A strategy session. Still, I changed twice.
The first dress feels too obvious—like I’m trying. The second is too sharp, too much like the version of me who has a board meeting in the morning.
I settle on tight jeans and a silk cami, a blazer thrown over the top like an afterthought. I pretend I’m not wondering if Elaine will notice the shoes.
By the time I’m in the car, I’m irritated with myself. I haven’t second-guessed an outfit since… hell, maybe college. But the thought of walking into some dimly lit corner booth and seeing that smirk aimed at me has me checking my reflection in the rearview one last time.
It’s not a fucking date.
Elaine’s already there when I walk in, jacket slung over the back of her chair, one heel hooked on the rung like she owns the place. The low amber light paints her skin in warm edges, and for a second, I forget how to move.
She’s halfway through a drink, something dark, with ice catching the light, and there’s a second glass in front of the empty seat.
“You’re late,” she says, not looking up right away. When her gaze does find mine, it skims over the blazer, the cami, the jeans, and lands on my shoes. The corner of her mouth tilts like she’s saving an image for later.
“I’m exactly on time,” I say, sliding into the seat.
“Mm. That’s late when I’ve been waiting.” She nudges the extra glass toward me. “Figured you wouldn’t want to waste minutes ordering.”
I take a sip. It’s exactly what I would’ve picked. “And what if I hated it?”
Elaine’s smile is small, sharp. “You won’t.”
And damn her, she’s right.
We go over the basics at first, places, the scraps of proof we’ve already got. Her handwriting is slanted and quick as she makes notes, the pen tapping against the table when she’s thinking.
At some point, I realize I’m watching her more than the paper.
She catches it without calling me out, just lets her gaze lift from the page long enough to hold mine. “You’re distracted,” she says. It’s not a question.
“I’m not.”
“You are.” She leans back, one arm draped over the back of the booth, the other still holding the pen. “You think I can’t tell the difference between someone plotting and someone staring?”
My mouth opens, closes. “You’re impossible.”
“Mm.” The pen spins between her fingers. “You like that about me.”
I want to argue. Instead, I take another sip of the drink she ordered and force myself back to the point. “We need a timeline. It's been a little over two years; his contract’s ending, and he’ll be back in Arizona soon. That’s when we hit him.”
Her smirk eases into something steadier. “Two years is a long time to collect knives.”
“And we’ll use every one of them,” I say.
For a moment, we just look at each other across the table, the weight of what we’re building thick in the air. But under it—or maybe tangled up in it—there's something else. Something I can’t name.
Elaine breaks it first, glancing down at the notes. “Alright, Widow. Let’s ruin a man.”
We step out of the booth and into the heat that clings to Agave Hills even after dark. The air smells faintly of jasmine from the planters lining the patio, and I swear it’s stronger when she walks past me.
Elaine adjusts the strap of her bag, glancing toward the parking lot. “You gonna make me walk to my car alone after all this scheming?”
“I’m not an animal,” I say, falling into step beside her.
She doesn’t rush, doesn’t bother with the usual small talk people fill silences with. It’s comfortable, in a way that shouldn’t be, given that our shared hobby is planning my husband’s destruction.
At her car, she leans against the door, keys dangling from her fingers. “You’re getting good at this,” she says.
“At ruining lives?”
“At letting yourself enjoy it.” Her smile tilts like she knows exactly where that lands.
I should turn away, get in my car, and drive home. Instead, I find myself resting a hand against the roof of hers, just long enough for her eyes to flick to the space between us.
The moment stretches.
“Drive safe,” I tell her, finally stepping back.
She slides into the driver’s seat without breaking eye contact. “You too, Widow.”
And when her taillights disappear down the street, I realize my pulse hasn’t slowed since we left the booth.
By the time I pull into my driveway, the house is dark, and only the soft glow of the kitchen sink light is left on. I toss my keys into the bowl, kick off my shoes, and lean against the counter like I might actually just… stop thinking about her.
“You rushed off late,” Ansel says.
I jump, spinning to see her perched against the counter, glass of water in her hand. My hand flies to my chest, willing my heartbeat to slow. “Jesus, Ansel. Give a girl a warning next time.” “I had a lot to finish at work,” I add, too quickly.
Her gaze lingers, searching, before she sets the glass down. “Just… be careful, Stella.” She slips toward the stairs.
“I will,” I murmur, though I don’t know if she hears it.
Then I am left in the dim kitchen; only the low hum of the refrigerator can be heard.
That lasts all of thirty seconds.
I grab my phone before I can think better of it. It lights up with an incoming phone call before I can do anything.
I hesitate, then swipe.
“You doing okay?” he asks, voice softer than usual.
“I’m fine,” I lie automatically. He exhales like he doesn’t quite believe me.
“I just… Donovan’s not. He looks like hell, Stella.
I know that’s not your problem anymore, but—” “It isn’t,” I cut in, sharper than I mean to.
“Yeah,” Mac says quietly. “I just figured you’d want to know. ”
Silence. My thumb hovers over the end button before I finally say, “Goodnight, Mac,” and hang up.
The kitchen is quiet again, the screen black in my hand.
Upstairs, I drop onto the bed without turning on a light. My head won’t stop running in circles. Should I call Donovan? Hear him out? Am I dragging this too far? God, do I even want to give him another chance?
The phone lights up before I can decide.
Homewrecker: Cedar Oak Lake. 5:30 p.m.
I don’t respond. I just set it face down beside me and stare at the ceiling until sleep finally drags me under.
I wake early and head into Carrington Caskets before anyone else arrives.
The quiet of my office is a relief, free of reminders of the utter shit show I call my life.
My pencil glides across the sketchbook, the scratch of graphite against paper keeping me tethered.
I’m halfway through the curve of a lid molding, the grain beginning to take shape—
“Goddammit.” I slam the pencil onto my desk.
The phone is already in my hand before I realize it. Back to that one message.
Homewrecker: Cedar Oak Lake. 5:30 p.m.
No hello. No explanation.
I stare at it longer than I should, the scattered order forms on my desk blurring at the edges. My lip is between my teeth before I even notice. This isn’t a strategy session. It feels like… an invitation.
My thumb hesitates, then moves.
Me: Okay.