Dinner was quiet.
As usual. As always.
It always was whenever I stopped by Miss Karen's. The clink of cutlery against ceramic was the only real sound between us, punctuated by the occasional wheeze of the radiator in the corner. The air in the tiny dining room felt tensed and heavy, not with heat, but with memory. With silence that spoke of things we never said.
Iusedtothinkitwasjusthowshewas—quiet, reserved, maybe tired. But I knew better now.
I was the cause of the awkwardness. I had always been. And when I'd once worked up the nerve to address it—to ask if my presence brought her more pain than peace—she had sworn up and down that it wasn't true.
"No, no, Sinclair," she had said, voice trembling like old paper.
"You're welcome here. Always." But it was too late.
I already knew.
It was because of me.
If it weren't for me, Darren wouldn't have died—not like that. He wouldn't have to chase me down the woods that night, desperate to clear the air after we argued like two fools who didn't know how to say I'm sorry. If I hadn't walked away, if I had just listened…
He wouldn't have been stabbed. Forty-three times.
Forty-three.
That number lived in my chest like a second heartbeat.
MissKarendidn'tlookatmemuchwhileweate. Shejustpoked gently at her mashed potatoes, her hand trembling slightly every time her fork scraped the plate. Her silver curls were tied back tonight, and though she wore the same soft cardigan she always did, her face had changed. Not from age. No, the lines on her face spoke of stress, not time. Worry created deeper wrinkles on her oval-shaped face than any calendar could.
I chewed slowly on the baked chicken she'd made—moist, seasoned with her usual blend of rosemary and guilt—and stared at my plate more than her.
Then, finally, I broke the silence.
"Have you heard from Freda?"
Her head lifted, and for a moment, her face warmed.
"Yes," she said, her voice like warm tea. "She's doing great, actually. Still working at the flower shop. Got herself promoted. Can you believe it?"
I offered a small smile. "Yeah… she always had a way with arrangements."
"She's blooming, that girl," Miss Karen said softly. "Even after everything."
She didn't have to say what everything was. We both knew.
After dinner, I stood up and began clearing the table out of habit. She didn't stop me. She never did. Sometimes, I wondered if letting me do it was her quiet form of penance—or maybe mine.
The dishes clinked gently as I stacked them, heading toward the sink.
But before I could leave the room, her voice stopped me.
"Sinclair."
I turned. Her eyes were on me now. Full. Focused.
"Yes?"
She pressed her hand to her chest, breathing out. "Detective Nathan dropped by today."
I stiffened. "Dropped by?"
She nodded slowly. "Said he's… withdrawing from Darren's case."
I blinked. My mouth opened, but no words came.
"He's the twelfth," she said, her lips twitching in a bitter smile. "Twelfth detective to walk away. They all say the same thing, you know—'no leads,' 'case gone cold,' 'resources needed elsewhere.'"
I sat down slowly, forgetting the dishes in my hands.
Her voice shook now. "I promised myself… if Nathan left, I'd stop. I'd give up. Stop chasing shadows. Stop opening old wounds."
She reached for her napkin and dabbed her eyes, though I hadn't seen a tear fall.
"But I want you to know, Sinclair… I have no regrets. Not one. Fighting for Darren, for what happened to my poor baby… I'd do it all again."
I swallowed hard. "Miss Karen—"
"No," she said, raising a hand. "I'm not asking you to pick up the torch, dear. I'm telling you to put it down. Give it up. You've carried it long enough. It's not your burden anymore." But she didn't know what I knew.
She didn't know how close I was.
In my mind, I screamed the words I couldn't say aloud: I'm almost there. I'm close. Just a few more steps and I'll have them.
I nodded instead, letting her believe I would rest.
But I wouldn't.
Because I owed it to her.
To Darren.
To myself.
* * *