Chiara’s father had been his mentor. Her older brother, his friend. I remembered the day he first told me about her. “She’s my teacher’s daughter, and my friend’s sister,” he had said. “She’s young, immature. Don’t take her seriously.”
And when jealousy flared in me, when I wanted to confront her, he held me close and whispered, “Her father’s done so much for me. I won’t risk our relationship over trivial things. Trust me—I’ll stay away from her.”
I had believed him.
That night, after he left for work, I went to my daughter’s old room. The only place that still felt like mine.
When I woke that morning, a blanket was draped over me—thin, rough, but tucked around my shoulders. For a moment, I just stared, trying to place its source. Then I realized—it had to be him.
I yanked it off and threw it to the floor. It felt filthy against my skin.
My phone buzzed. A message from Mara.
“I’m trying to hurry here. You can also start looking for clues.”
Clues. I stared at the screen, my mind racing. Then I glanced toward the master bedroom—the door still ajar.
Then I heard it. Laughter. Soft, melodic, foreign to this place.
I made my way downstairs and froze.