Chapter 4
Calla
I wake up to the throb of a headache, the harsh morning light slicing through the curtains and cutting straight into my skull.
The ache behind my eyes deepens as I roll onto my side, pressing the heels of my hands into my forehead, begging it to stop.
I didn’t sleep. I moved restlessly, my body unsettled by the emotions I dragged into bed with me.
Fragments of last night drift through my mind—disjointed and hazy, sharp like shards of glass catching the light.
A flash of him. A moment. A touch. Enough to stir something inside me, something I don’t want to feel.
My stomach clenches, a knot of unease forming as shame spreads through me, seeping in like a stain that won’t wash away.
How did I let it happen? I was so reckless—so drawn to him, like I couldn’t stop myself. And I don’t even know his name. I practically threw myself at him, responding to the slightest touch like I was desperate.
It doesn’t make sense. This unexplainable pull toward him. The way my skin burned under his hands—a reaction I still feel now. I shouldn’t have let him have that hold on me. I should’ve pushed back. Maybe if I had, it wouldn’t hurt like this.
I swear, I can still taste him on my lips, my fingers still aching where they pressed against him.
Heat simmers low in my belly, but I refuse to let him control me—especially not from a distance. With a frustrated groan, I swing my legs over the side of the bed. Every movement takes more energy than I have, my thoughts screaming louder than they have any right to.
Why am I letting a stranger occupy so much of my mind?
Peeling off my damp clothes from last night, still clinging to my skin with traces of sweat, I let them fall into a pile on the floor. My limbs ache with the weight of everything I didn’t say, every feeling I couldn’t escape.
I slip into worn grey sweatpants and a cropped long-sleeve shirt, the soft fabric a small comfort against my clammy skin. Pulling my hair into a messy bun, I slide into slippers and shuffle toward the kitchen.
I pause, my eyes locking on the coffee pot. The thought of caffeine stirs a small spark of energy in me. Slowly, I fill the machine with water and grounds, the familiar motions bringing some semblance of normalcy. I reach into the cabinet for the first mug I touch—
And the moment I see it, my heart sinks.
The mug. Her mug.
It was a gift from Jules—one of those small, thoughtful gestures only she could pull off. I remember the day she gave it to me, just weeks after I moved in. I was still drowning in the chaos of a new job and a new apartment, barely keeping my head above water.
She’d shown up at my door in pajamas, her wild curls barely tamed, a sleepy smile tugging at her lips. She only lived two floors up, but seeing her here first thing in the morning, holding a gift bag with tissue paper spilling over the top, was something I didn’t expect.
“I don’t need this,” I’d said hesitantly, uncomfortable with the idea of accepting anything from her. She’d already done so much without even realizing it—filling cracks I hadn’t known were there, mending parts of me I hadn’t acknowledged were broken.
She just laughed, rolled her eyes, and shoved the bag into my hands. “Oh, stop. Just open it.”
Inside was the mug, plain white with bold black letters that read: All My Sheets Are Dirty, the words printed in a no-nonsense font that mimicked the style of a spreadsheet header.
Thin, faint grid lines stretched across the ceramic, mimicking the neat rows of a well-organized table.
It was clever, and exactly the mix of nerdy and cheeky only Jules could find.
I’d burst out laughing, holding it up as she threw her hands in the air.
“It fits, okay?” she’d said, grinning like she’d just delivered the perfect punchline. “Consider it a housewarming-slash-office-warming gift. Functional and accurate.”
The memory is so vivid it almost hurts, her laugh still echoing faintly in my mind. The mug feels heavier than it should, my thumb brushing over the text until it blurs into a haze of unshed tears.
With a slow breath, I set it back on the shelf and reach for another—plain, simple, unremarkable.
And I close the cabinet with a soft click.
When the coffee finally finishes brewing, I pour it into the new mug, leaving just enough room at the top. I cross the kitchen and top it off with cold water from the fridge, watching as the steam curls, softens, then disappears.
Carrying my mug to the table, I drop into a chair, my thoughts now tangled in Jules.
She’s gone, and I don’t think anyone’s looking for answers anymore.
The town has moved on, slipping back into its rhythms of workday grumbles and weekend plans, effortless in their happiness. The investigation’s gone cold, the police turning to petty crimes and traffic tickets.
It’s like she’s just a memory to everyone but me. The world moved on without her. But when she died, my world stopped. Time hasn’t healed. It never started moving again.
Guilt wraps around me, gnawing at the edges of my thoughts.
It’s not survivor’s guilt. It’s something worse: a crushing certainty that I could’ve done more. Been there. Somehow stopped this from happening.
A loud sputter jolts me from my spiraling thoughts, and I jump, hand flying to my chest. My eyes dart around the apartment, searching for the source of the noise.
But in the stillness, I see her everywhere.
The bowl on the coffee table, full of matchbooks from places I’ve been, places I want to go to. The one Jules started adding to, too. The one I still dig a hand through absently, tracing the corners like I’m looking for something I lost.
The untouched stack of books on the coffee table—the ones she dropped off just hours after I admitted I’d tried to run a book review account in college and given up after two posts .
The wine glass she always used on the bar cart. The one that held almost half a bottle. The one she only took big, chugging sips from—always when she brought it up.
That summer.
She’d say it with a sad smile, like it was some inside joke I was never meant to be a part of. And I never asked.
I realized, then, that we were both healing. Just in different ways.
I shake my head, pushing against the ache threatening to take over. No. I won’t let her fade like everyone else has. She’s not a story that’s over—she’s a thread still unraveling, waiting for someone to pull. And if no one else will, I will.
Defiance crowds my ribs and squeezes as I stomp toward my bedroom. My phone’s still face down on the nightstand, right where I left it. I snatch it up, glancing at my unmade bed. The sheets are still a tangled mess from dreamless sleep, but that’s a problem for afternoon Calla to deal with.
Back in the kitchen, I sink into a chair at the table, fingers already swiping across my phone screen. I can’t focus on anything else.
Juliette Sinclair.
I type her name with mechanical precision, the same results staring back at me like they have for weeks.
Local Woman Found Dead After Two-Day Search
Investigation Stalls: No New Leads in Juliette Sinclair’s Death
I scroll past the same headlines, the same photos, searching for anything—an overlooked clue, a forgotten detail, something that might finally lead me to the truth.
Boyfriend Tyler Hayes cleared After Questioning in Missing Woman’s Deat h
My jaw clenches so hard I feel it in my teeth. I click the link, the words already burning into my mind as the page loads. Each second stretches painfully long until a photo appears—Jules and Tyler at the beach this summer.
I really look at it this time.
Jules is radiant in the foreground, her dark curls bouncing as she laughs, joy practically radiating through the screen. Beside her, Tyler stands with his hand on her shoulder, holding her just a little too tightly.
At first glance, it looks ordinary. Just a couple at the beach. But the longer I study it, the more the details start to eat at me.
His smile doesn’t match the rest of his face. It’s a thin, forced line, never quite reaching his cold, calculating eyes. Those eyes—too pale, too sharp, too void of anything real. I used to shrink beneath them, convinced they could dissect me in an instant and dismiss me just as quickly.
I tilt the screen closer, my thumb trembling. His washed-out complexion only makes the deep shadows under his eyes more pronounced, the tight set of his jaw more visible.
He was always so composed. Everything about him measured. Every word deliberate.
Still, I thought he was harmless.
Jules had been so happy when she introduced him, raving about how thoughtful he was, how he always seemed to have everything handled. But over time, I started to see the cracks.
Thoughtful wasn’t it. Tyler wasn’t thoughtful.
He was controlling.
The thought of talking to him makes my skin crawl, but what choice do I have? No matter how much I dislike him, he might know something.
For months, I told myself there was nothing he could say that the police hadn’t already heard. But now, staring at this photo—his forced smile, the distance in his eyes—I can’t shake the feeling that there’s more.
It stirs something deep inside me, dragging a memory to the surface that I’ve tried to bury.
It was just a week before she died. I was on the couch reading when a soft knock broke the silence.
I wasn’t expecting anyone, but when I looked through the peephole and saw Jules standing there, mascara streaked down her cheeks, my heart sank.
I yanked the door open and pulled her into a tight hug.
“He told me I’m too much, Calla.” Her voice trembled, barely holding together. “That I make him crazy.”
I ran my fingers through her hair, offering what little comfort I could—but even then, I felt her slipping away.
“He said he’d be better off without me… that everyone would,” she whispered, her voice breaking on every word.
My stomach churned then, just like it does now. Tyler was always so careful, but the man she described that night felt different. Dangerous in a way that didn’t need to be loud. A snake coiled and waiting to strike.
I’ll never forget the way she looked at me, like she was holding herself together piece by fragile piece.
I look at the photo again.
I’m not ready to accuse him of anything. I’m not even sure I have the courage to confront him. But I can’t let this go—not when there’s a chance he knows something .
It’s not really investigating. It’s just a conversation. A chance to see him face-to-face. Maybe he doesn’t know anything. Maybe he’ll shrug and pretend he’s just as clueless as the rest of us.
But I have to try.
Because if I don’t, the what-ifs will eat me alive.
I push back from the table, resolve clicking into place. As I head toward the door, my eyes flick to the coat rack.
Empty.
Right. I left my coat at the bar last night.