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Niamh laughs, a little too brightly, but it serves its purpose. "I am having the same problem! No reds, oranges, greens, purples… during autumn. This is the season of bright colors."
She then glances at the phone, her fingers tapping out a response.
Her sister?! How did you get her to meet with us? What did you tell her?
"I am leaning toward a dark blue with golden accents. What do you think?" I continue aloud, describing an outfit that I haven’t even picked out yet. Privately, on the phone, I reply, I told her that we may have information about what happened to her sister.
Niamh’s face flickers with a mix of emotions—revulsion, fear, anticipation—as she reads my message. Out loud, she keeps up her end of the trivial chatter. "That sounds lovely, very elegant. Maybe I should go with something similar... keep it classy, right?"
Her fingers hesitate before she types back. This is risky, Selene. If Maura knows anything... or suspects...
I nod, understanding her concerns, both spoken and unspoken. "Absolutely, we should coordinate. Can't have us clashing; it would be the talk of the evening," I say, chuckling as if we were discussing nothing more serious than fashion choices.
In our digital whispers, I add, We need answers, Niamh. We’re flying blind otherwise. I pause, then decide to share more, hoping it will solidify her resolve. And there's more. No one mentioned that the missing Sofia Hughes had been found or how. But they reported heavily on the body found buried under where she was last seen.
Niamh reads the message, her expression darkening for a moment before she schools her features into neutrality. Out loud, she says, "Maybe a touch of gold in the accessories then? Could brighten up the evening."
Silently, she hands the phone back to me after typing, We’re in too deep to back out now. Let’s see this through.
As we exchange our phones back and forth, our spoken words light and frothy, our written ones dense with the gravity of our real predicament, the car turns smoothly onto a broader avenue leading us away from the heart of the city. Toward answers, toward danger—toward Maura.
Our visit to the morgue had been grim and unyielding. The official report branded Sofia's death a suicide, a neat, convenient label to close the case. Yet, the assistant at the morgue, her face pale and her voice barely above a whisper, had confided in us that she didn’t agree with the official narrative. "Things don’t add up," she had said, her eyes darting nervously around the cold, sterile room. That conversation echoed in my mind.
Aside from this, all we really knew was that Sofia had been employed in some administrative capacity for the national government—a position that might have given her access to sensitive information, perhaps enough to put her in danger. It seemed likely that Maura was aware of her sister’s governmental role, but whether she knew the darker undercurrents of Sofia’s fate was another matter entirely. The question loomed heavy between Niamh and me: were we the ones destined to reveal the truth to Maura about how her sister really died?
Lost in these thoughts, I gaze out the window. The Audi slows as we approach our destination, the quaint facade of the coffee shop coming into view. It's nestled on the corner of a street paved with traditional cobblestones, picturesque and bustling on this bright autumn day. Patrons are already gathered outside, enjoying the crisp air and spiced coffee aromas that mingle with the fallen leaves. I squint, scanning the crowd for any sign of Maura.
A gentle bump against my arm has me turning. Niamh offers her phone to me. On the screen is her latest message,
Why are we so obsessed with this?
It's a good question—one that haunts me in the quiet hours of the night when the world seems to stand still except for my thoughts. I quickly type back. We can’t do anything for ourselves; maybe we can do something for her.
We park a street over from the coffee shop. Our escorts, a pair of hired grunts, amble behind us with a disinterested gait. They're typical in their detachment, barely acknowledging our existence beyond their duty to follow. Thankfully, they keep their distance, choosing to lean against a nearby wall, giving us a semblance of freedom to get our coffees in peace.
With a cup of bitter brew warming my hands, I scan the crowd. It doesn’t take long to spot Maura. I know her only from photos—photos that included Sofia, always vibrant and alive, a stark contrast to the stillness of her in death. Seeing Maura in person jars me. She hasn't noticed us yet, allowing me a moment to study her from afar. There’s something unexpectedly ordinary about her as she sits there sipping her coffee, lost in thought.
Maura’s beauty strikes me immediately as we approach her table. There’s a grace to her features that’s undeniable—a testament to the genetic jackpot her family seems to have hit. Her lips are naturally plump, curving elegantly over a chin that tapers to a gentle, sleek jawline. Her eyelashes are enviably thick, curling naturally at the edges of her soft, melancholic eyes.
In the photos I had seen of Sofia, she had always appeared either professional or radiantly happy. The contrast with Maura, sitting before me, is stark. Her face seems drained of that familial joy, shadowed by dark circles under her eyes that tell of sleepless nights and a grief that clings tightly. Those eyes… they look out into the distance but seem to see nothing. They remind me painfully of my own reflection on the worst days after finding out why my parents had me, for one thing—for no other reason than to marry me off to gain power.
With a gentle approach, I greet her softly, "Maura?" My voice is cautious, unwilling to startle her.
She doesn’t jump; there’s no sudden movement, no flicker of surprise. It's as if it takes her a few moments for her mind to wander back from its distant thoughts, to realize someone is actually speaking to her. The sadness of it grips my chest with a tight fist.
"Hi, Maura. I’m Selene, and this is Niamh," I introduce us, stepping closer but maintaining a respectful distance. I want to give her space, physically and emotionally, to adjust to our presence.
Maura gives a slow, almost imperceptible nod. Her acknowledgment is subdued, her expression unreadable as she assesses us, perhaps trying to piece together why we're here. Her gaze shifts between Niamh and me, a flicker of curiosity briefly cutting through the fog of her sorrow.
“May we sit?” I ask.
She nods. I glance at Niamh, who pulls out a chair, and I follow suit.
As we settle into the slightly uncomfortable metal chairs at Maura's table, I lean forward, clasping my hands together on the tabletop. I glance at Niamh, who looks back at me with a slight unease. "Maura, Niamh and I are sisters," I begin, ignoring the way Niamh stiffens beside me. My words spill out rapidly, a deliberate ploy to keep Maura from noticing Niamh's reaction. "We lost our other sister, Amira, recently. Your sister's story... it resonated with us."
Maura's expression softens, her eyes meeting mine with a depth of understanding that only comes from shared pain. "I'm sorry for your loss," she murmurs. "Only those who've been through it can really understand."
Her words slice through me, and I fight to keep my composure, to not let the guilt of our fabricated story show. I nod, briefly closing my eyes. "Thank you, Maura. It means a lot hearing that from you."
