Page 129 of Shhh…It’s A Killer Story

A distraction I couldn't seem to shake.

Bzzzz.

The vibration against my thigh cut through the silence. I pulled my phone from my pocket.

Unknown.

I stared at it. For a second I considered letting it ring out. It could be Walker, but why the fuck would he call on a unknown number maybe the fucking press but why? It couldn’t be the State Bureau.

Fuck maybe it was…It didn't matter. Something stopped me. Something cold. Something instinctive. I answered.

"Reed."

Silence. No voice. Just static. Somewhere in the background. My grip tightened.

"Hello?"

Nothing. Then breathing. Uneven. Shallow. A whimper followed. Someone trying not to cry. The sound dragged something deep inside my chest tight.

"Elias..."

The voice barely existed. Just enough air to shape my name. Recognition hit before thought did.

"Seraphina?"

Silence. Then the smallest sob. Not loud. Not hysterical. The kind that comes after you've already cried until there's nothing left. I closed my eyes. Every muscle in my body locked.

"Talk to me."

Nothing. Just another shaky breath.

"Seraphina..."

My voice had changed. I could hear it. Lower. Softer. Fuck. Please. No.

"Talk to me, baby."

A wet inhale. Then another. She was trying. God...She was trying.

"Please, talk to me."

The word left my mouth before I realized I'd said it. The line clicked. Dead. The silence afterward was louder than the crying had been.

Seraphina

Butter hissed softly against the hot cast-iron pan, turning the edges of the thick sourdough a deep, blistered golden brown. The smell of rosemary drifted up from the fresh butter I'd mixed earlier that morning, warm, rich, and earthy enough to make the whole kitchen feel smaller and safer than it really was.

I liked cooking. Recipes made promises. Follow the steps.

Stir.

Wait.

Taste.

Unlike people, ingredients rarely lied. If you gave them the proper heat, they became exactly what they were supposed to be. They didn't wake up one morning and decided to become strangers. They didn't look at you with kindness one day and cruelty the next. They simply became bread. Soup. Butter. Comfort.

I set the plate down on the wooden table beside a bowl of thick tomato soup, little bubbles still breaking lazily around the edges.