Chapter 1
The train rattles steadily as it climbs onto Cindrel Bridge, a weary beast of iron and wheels. The car lurches slightly, as though protesting the effort before settling into the constant, rhythmic clatter of metal on metal. Outside my window, the world is awash with colour, the iron girders of the bridge slicing the dusk into fractured strips. The sun, with its swollen and honeyed look, has sagged low in the west, as though exhausted from its day’s journey, spilling golden dust upon the restless sweep of the river below. Each ripple catches the light like shards of fractured glass, so that the entire surface gleams with a restless, trembling splendour.
For once, the light is gentle, so muted that I can look straight at it without flinching. I lean my head against the cool pane of glass, letting the view blur as tiredness threatens to sew my eyelids shut in a final effort to wring out all the rest I have been denying my body over the past few days. It is the kind of light that invites staring, the kind that makes the world seem gentle even when it is anything but.
Inside the carriage, however, gentleness is in short supply. Conversations ebb and surge around me like the shifting tide; laughter tumbling out of one group, some sharp exchange between two men in suits, the rustle of newspapers, the insistent chime of a phone from somewhere down the aisle. The words flitted around me like moths about a lantern, never settling, never still. An infant’s wail rose above it all, thin and tremulous, like a violin string stretched too tight.
I glance down at the seat before me. A young mother sits there, her back slightly hunched as if to block the annoyed stares and unspoken rebukes before they choke her for good. Her hair has escaped its pins in frazzled wisps, and the child in her arms, red-faced and inconsolable, wears clothes clearly meant for an older sibling; trousers too long, a shirt whose sleeves swallow his fists. Hand-me-downs, softened by years of soap and sun.
The woman’s shoulders tremble with the rhythm of her rocking, the kind born not of tenderness alone but of sheer exhaustion. She looks up, perhaps sensing the weight of my gaze. Her eyes, ringed with shadows, meet mine with an expression of someone drowning, someone who has long given up calling for help. For the briefest moment, she summons a smile, thin, apologetic, tinged with defeat at the face of the world’s unrelenting demands.
I give her one in return, a small curve of the lips meant to reassure. It is fine, truly. Babies cry. You are doing what you can.
But inside, I am silently urging the train to hurry. It has been a long day, the kind that drags too long, filled with unsavoury moments. My shoulders still ache from standing stiffly for hours, from the effort of keeping my face composed while a museum curator droned on about the provenance of a painting.
He had argued himself into circles, obsessing over catalogues and brushstrokes as though reality might bend if he examined it hard enough. At one point, I very nearly told him to leave the Monet for someone with fewer doubts and more sense, someone without that suffocating cloak of obstinacy that blinds them to the truth. Only the prospect of unemployment kept the words behind my teeth.
Thankfully, my boss had swept in before my patience unravelled entirely. He is a man who can charm the frost off a windowpane, whose smile could have pacified the curator of the Louvre itself. Within minutes, he had the irate man soothed, nodding along to reassurances delivered in smooth, polished tones.
And me? I had stood there with my clipboard like a weapon I dared not use, counting the minutes until I could leave without looking like a deserter.
Now, rocking with the rhythm of the train, I can still feel the residue of that irritation, like a splinter lodged deep beneath the skin. All I want is to step off this rattling carriage before the day wears me down any further.
By the time I manage to do that, for a moment, the air feels as though I am inhaling after being held underwater, sharp, generous, and criminally sweet. I hurry along the pavement, each footfall a small relief, grateful for the stretch of unconfined space between me and the carriage’s stale heat. The sun is sliding fast; I hope to reach home before it sinks altogether.
From the corner of my eye, I notice a cluster of children swarm an ice-cream cart, their high, insistent voices battering the vendor’s patience. Coins jangle in outstretched palms, and the youngest has melted chocolate down his wrist. If it were any other day, I might step closer, offer a treat, or reason with the man before he snaps the shutter in exasperation. Today, the sale at the gallery allows me an obnoxious amount of luxury, but even on the other days, my finances remain stable enough to fund frequent bouts of charity. Yet the day has been long, and generosity feels like an indulgence I cannot afford.
By the time I reach my street, I am almost breathless. I lean against the lamppost to steady myself, tasting metal and sun in the air. My hands fumble in my bag with the hope of grasping my keys without requiring a visual search. There is some leftover chicken in a Tupperware in my fridge, the fruit of my habit of cooking in the early morning. I am thankful for that small prudence. Work is seldom as draining as today, but one never knows when the day will demand the last scrap of one’s patience.
"There are some men in front of your house, unknown. They have been there for a while."
I freeze up at the voice inside my head.
Really? Of all days, it has to be today, when I have not an ounce of fight left in me. My body screams at me for a warm bath and some food, delving into basic requirements rather than comprehending the current situation. I sigh and abandon the digging for my keys, choosing to grab my pepper spray instead, doing little to conceal it behind my palm as I turn around the corner.
And then I see them. Two men standing before my front steps, their posture too confident, their suits neat to the point of armour. They have been there long enough for the light to have settled over them, and I feel the hair at the nape of my neck prick.
One of them reaches up to ring the bell for one last time, barely waiting for a response before turning to leave, when they see me approaching. They straighten immediately, their shoulders shifting into the practised poise of men used to being noticed.
Cursing my luck for one more time, I slow down in my steps, showing the evident confusion, as both of them keep a brisk pace towards me.
“Ms Mosconi?” one of them calls, his voice curt.
I nod, the single movement shielded by habit. What do they want?
“We are detectives, from the state.” Both of them flash badges as though the metal will lend them instant credibility. The taller one closes the gap between us with a steady step. “Detective Gabriel Ainsley,” he adds. The other man gives a curt inclination of the head. “Detective Victor Petrov. We were hoping to speak to you about the death of Theo Caldwell. Is now a good time?”
My eyes widen at the mention of the bastard’s name, the mention a physical strike. For a breath, I taste copper, as if the word itself has weight enough to bruise.
My mouth dies up before my throat can, my mind hurling itself into a frenzy. I feel the reflex to rehearse a calm expression, to fold the moment away into that small, private theatre where I keep my composure. I have been practising for the past week, working diligently to ensure that the allusion will not have any effect or influence over me. I have measured my reactions, rehearsed my blankness, reminded myself that sharp things are merely wind against glass. I have told myself, with brutal clarity, that nothing he does or suffers can alter the careful world I have rebuilt around silence and routine.
And I believe I would have been perfectly capable of keeping my face covered by an intact mask of indifference, had I been aware that the fucker had bit the dust. That is the oddest part: the possibility of feeling vindicated has never appealed to me, yet now the news lands with the peculiar sting of something wasted.
A dozen uncharitable expressions line up in my mind like receipts, inventive and petty, things I have wished upon him in the month since we parted, which I had felt had been wasted on air. Each one arrives like a small, shameful ledger entry, a tally of private cruelties I never meant to mark in the world.
It does not feel particularly gratifying to realise that perhaps one of those private maledictions has hit its mark. The thought is thinner than I imagine, colder than I suspect, and it leaves me oddly hollow rather than relieved.
The detective’s gaze flickers over me, impatience sharpening the line of his mouth, before it softens into something like professional gravity. “Miss Mosconi,” he says, voice practised and even, “we are conducting inquiries into Mr Caldwell’s death. Your cooperation is essential if we are to identify who is responsible and ensure that person is brought to justice.”
He steps a fraction closer, the movement measured so as not to startle. “Would you be willing to give a statement now, here, or at the station?” His eyes drop to the pepper spray enclosed in my fist, then lift again with a careful, almost apologetic inflexion. “If you prefer, we can take the questions here in the street.”
There is a civility to the offer that does not conceal its calculation. He is giving me a choice to keep me compliant, offering convenience so I will not ask for time or counsel. I tighten my grip around the plastic until the knuckle of my thumb pales. The world narrows to the slight metallic taste of it against my palm, to the way the detectives’ badges catch the sinking sun, to the sudden, invasive hubbub of the street. The street smells of hot tar and the faint sweetness of melting ice cream. The children are still shrieking at the cart.
I want to tell him that I do not know anything that could help them, that Theo’s absence has been a silence in my life rather than an alarm. I want to tell him that the last words from him that I was subjected to were pathetic and pleading. Instead, I lift my chin, slow and deliberate, and nod once, the smallest concession.
Okay, I sign briskly and move past them to unlock the door, resigned to the fact that they surely did not understand. The writing pad I usually carry — my tether to conversations, to explanations — exhausted itself today just after lunch, after a remarkable span of three and a half months. Now it lies depleted in the dustbin beside my workdesk, filled up to the last page with my part of the conversations.
I step inside, peel off my shoes, and leave the door open behind me, a silent invitation for the detectives to follow. The air in the hallway is cooler, tinged faintly with rosemary from the small sachet I hung there months ago. I hurry to the living room where another one of the yellow-paged notebooks rests upon the table, this one for the sole purpose of conversations around the house. I seize it, almost grateful for its weight, and fumble for a pen, my movements clumsy with the pressure of being misunderstood.
The murmur of their shoes on the threshold tells me they are just about to enter when I spin around and thrust the notebook with my scrawled words forward. My anxious energy propels it so close to Detective Petrov’s face that he stumbles back with a sharp intake of breath. His brow creases, lips parting as he takes the pad from me with slow deliberation.
His eyes travel down the page to read the words that my mouth can shape, but never bring into existence. For a heartbeat, his composure falters. He blinks, his features hardening into shock before smoothing again with effort. Without a word, he passes the notebook to his partner. The silence between them swells with something heavier than mere surprise, both of them turning their attention to me with eyes sharpened by new understanding.
“I apologise for my reaction outside,” I have written in tight, urgent letters. “But please understand that I was not aware that Theo had died. If you leave your shoes at the door and follow me inside, I will be willing to answer any questions you may have.”
Detective Ainsley reads it with less drama, though the way his gaze jerks up to me betrays the sting of surprise. The shock in his eyes lingers, though muted, as though he is struggling not to betray how unsettled he feels. For an instant, I feel the instinctive urge to recoil, to shield myself from that stare, but I clamp the impulse down and force myself to stand still. My hand tightens protectively around the pen, as if the minor weapon alone can guard me.
“You are mute?” His question cuts through the room, sharp as a blade. The blunt accusation, wrapped in his brusque tone, somehow lessens the weight of unease pressing on my chest, shifting it into something closer to annoyance. I lift my chin, nodding with deliberate calm, and motion for them to come inside.
The surprise that had stiffened their features seems to soften now, ebbing away as though shame and courtesy have begun to take root in its place. They toe off their shoes with awkward precision, then follow me wordlessly down the short hallway, their presence crowding the space though neither utters a sound.
"Men? Men! Isbel has new people in the house!" I ignore the voice for now, patting twice on the door to the living room.
They settle onto the sofa, their posture guarded yet faintly deferential. My gaze fixes on the notebook, which is named Pablo, still caught in Detective Ainsley’s hands. He notices, colour touching his ears as though he has been caught hoarding something personal. Quickly, almost clumsily, he passes it back to me.
I take it, the weight reassuring, and lower myself into the armchair opposite them. The pen scratches faintly as I write, my hand steady though my thoughts race faster than I can capture them. I turn the pad back toward them, the words neat and carefully framed:
“Shall I offer you something to drink? I apologise, but I only have tea, coffee, and water in the house—perhaps a little Sprite, if either of you prefers.”
Detective Petrov clears his throat and answers first, his voice softer now, touched with something that almost sounds like contrition. “Water is fine, Miss Mosconi. Thank you.” His eyes flicker briefly over my face, not unkindly, though shaded with something he seems unsure how to name.
“Will you sit down, please? We were not aware that you are vocally challenged.” The last words leave him cautiously, as if he is testing them for offence, though the faint embarrassment colouring his tone does not escape me.
Both of them wait with a kind of still patience as I bend over the page, though Detective Ainsley’s eyes linger far too intently. His gaze is unyielding, cutting in a way that makes my hand tremble despite my efforts to keep steady. The moment my pen falters, he notices. His brows knit together, and instead of softening his scrutiny, he leans back against the sofa with an expression that reeks of judgment, as though he has already begun weighing me on some private scale.
I press harder against the paper, forcing my words through the tremor in my wrist, and then turn the notebook toward Detective Petrov. He reads without reaching to take it, his eyes gliding steadily across the lines.
“It is not a secret,” the page declares. “I have a doctor’s written conclusion to prove it. I have been mute since the age of four.”
“I see.” His tone is clipped, careful, though his eyes flicker with perplexity before he smooths it away. For now, he seems willing to let the matter rest. He clears his throat and continues, steering the conversation towards the heart of their visit. “Miss Mosconi, you said you were not aware of Theo Caldwell’s recent murder?”
I startle at his admission. My head jerks up, eyes wide, and I shake it vehemently, so hard that a stray lock falls across my cheek. If I concentrate, I can almost feel the furniture in the room tremble at my unease.
“As per our understanding,” Petrov goes on, his voice steady but edged with curiosity, “you had been in a relationship with Mr Caldwell for about a year. Yes?”
The pen digs into the paper under my grip, the nib puncturing tiny holes as if my outrage itself has pressed through. My reply is scrawled with deliberate force, “I was, up until three months ago.”
Detective Ainsley’s gaze sharpens at that, though he lets his partner continue.
“But Mr Caldwell was also in a courtship with Robyn Caldwell for about the same duration,” Petrov says evenly. “Were you aware of that?”
My jaw clenches, and I can almost feel the tension travel down to my wrist as I write quickly, words slanting with the strain of memory. “No. I had no idea I was being deceived until three days before his wedding, when I discovered the existence of the other woman on my own. Only, in this case, I was the other woman, the one who would have been reduced to a mistress. I broke up with Theo that very day and never contacted him again.”
When I turn the notebook toward them, the last words are underlined, a streak of ink cutting across the paper like a wound.
Detective Ainsley studies it for a moment, then exhales through his nose as if weighing something heavy. “Miss Mosconi,” he begins, his honeyed voice lowering a notch, “I tell you this in confidence.”
He shifts forward, elbows resting on his knees, his tone sliding into something conspiratorial. “Theo Caldwell’s body was found yesterday, propped up on a bench in the public park. Well, propped up is not exactly the word, more like stacked upon. His death, it seems, came from a knife across the throat, but the rest of him…” He pauses, grimacing faintly. “Let us say his body bore signs of greater violence. There were… parts missing.”
A cold rush races up my spine. My stomach tightens until breathing feels like a task, and I pull back against the chair as if distance alone could ward off the grotesque imagery forming in my mind. My fingers crush the edge of the notebook, the paper crumpling and tearing where my nails dig in.
I did not realise his death had been so… hideous.
The image the detective’s words conjure arrives anyway, sharp and obscene, of blood pooling on pale stone, that once-familiar face emptied of breath, body bent at awkward angles, held together by blood-stained fabrics. I swallow against the rising nausea, but the metallic taste of dread coats my tongue. It is not pity I feel, nor anything as neat as grief. It is a deep, crawling wrongness, as though the world has quietly shifted beneath my feet nd will never sit right again.
What sort of enemies had Theo made to warrant such a brutal end? What sort of man had I once allowed into my life?
“This is not a mugging gone wrong kind of homicide,” Ainsley continues softly. His voice might have been pleasant in another context, but here, it feels almost cruelly smooth. “This has rage behind it, perhaps someone nursing a personal grudge against the man.”
His gaze sharpens, pinning me where I sit. “Are you aware of anyone who might have done this to him?”
I shake my head rapidly, the motion jerky, almost frantic. Suddenly, I am wholly aware of his insinuation. My breath falters. I can feel the accusation between his words, the invisible thread of suspicion tightening around me. To him, I am the convenient suspect: the discarded woman, humiliated and angry, who perhaps let vengeance override reason. The story writes itself in his mind, and I can see it reflected in his eyes. My breath comes unevenly, and the tremor in my hands refuses to subside.
I understand the accusation. If I dig deep enough, there is, regrettably, considering that man is just found dead, a significant part of me that is grinning unapologetically. I had indeed wished Theo dead, especially in the days after I discovered his betrayal. But thoughts are not crimes, and even they are a far cry from the horror that has just been described.
I cannot even stomach the sight of a nosebleed without feeling faint. And the precision and determination that it takes to carry out a proper torture session, as mentioned, is beyond my capabilities.
The detectives exchange a glance, brief but weighted. Then Petrov leans back in his chair, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly. “I see.” His tone is quieter now, perhaps touched by something resembling sympathy. “If it is all right with you, Miss Mosconi,” he says after a pause, “we would like to take that water now.”
The words sound almost absurd in their normalcy, like a sudden shift from thunder to drizzle. Yet even as I nod and rise, my mind remains trapped in the echo of what I have just heard, about the body, the knife, the missing parts, and the knowledge that whatever Theo Caldwell had done in life, death had found him with unspeakable fury.
I nod, setting the pen and notebook on the table before standing. My movements feel strangely heavy, as though the air itself resists me. The corridor stretches ahead, dim and quiet, and I follow it toward the kitchen with slow, deliberate steps.
The refrigerator hums when I open it, a low, familiar sound that somehow feels louder in the silence. I take out two chilled bottles of water, the cool condensation slipping down my fingers. The glasses clink faintly when I pull them from the shelf, a sharp, almost fragile sound against the stillness.
Then, just as I tilt the bottle to pour, the quiet shatters.
“Good Lord, the fucker is actually dead!”
“I really didn’t think that could have happened.”
“Is anyone sad, though? He is— oh, I’m sorry, was— a raging dick that everyone saw apart from Isbel, even if she is the one who has the eyes.”
“If you ask me, dying is the one significant thing he did in his lifetime.”
“What about his widow? Poor thing was only married for a month.”
“Is she important right now? There are instigators right there! In the house! We need to kick them out!”
I sigh, the sound soft and habitual. Lifting my own glass, I take a long swallow of water, the coldness sliding down my throat like a reprieve. “They are investigators,” I murmur in my head, though the correction earns no peace.
“What did I say?” one of the voices demands indignantly.
“Instigators.”
“I stand by my statement.”
A small huff escapes me, half laughter, half resignation. My toaster, an old, temperamental thing I picked up second-hand years ago, has always been particularly vocal. According to it, it once belonged to an Arabian sailor, which, considering its dramatic temperament, I do not doubt.
“Why are you standing here for so long?” another voice pipes up from somewhere near the sink.
I do not bother identifying which of them spoke. The house is full of chatter, full of Things that talk whenever they believe I am listening. I reach for my glass again. “I am trying to catch a break,” I sigh. “They are a bit intense.”
“What if they go snooping while you are here?”
I frown at the refrigerator, its handle cool under my fingers. “That would be extremely rude, I suppose.”
Still, I do not take the risk. Grabbing the bottles and glasses, I scramble back to the living room.
When I return, both men are seated exactly as I left them. Their expressions are composed, but the air between them carries the faint, charged quiet of a conversation hastily ended. Even the fold of their jackets seems too precise, too deliberate.
They have clearly regrouped in my absence, trying to adjust to the revelation of my muteness. I wonder why it unsettles them so. It is not as though I am the only person in the city who cannot speak. People live with worse afflictions and still function perfectly well.
And truly, I am not inconveniencing them in any way. It is not my fault that they did not bother to do their research before turning up on my doorstep. Writing takes time, yes, but it is hardly a burden. If anything, the only reason this conversation is slow is because they do not know sign language.
Which, frankly, feels like their problem, not mine.
Just as I place the tray on the coffee table, both men rise almost in unison. The movement startles me, my hand freezing mid-air over the glass.
Detective Ainsley gives a curt nod, his expression arranged into something that might have been contrition if it were not so clearly rehearsed. “Thank you for hosting us, Miss Mosconi,” he says, his tone smooth but hollow. “Unfortunately, we are being called back urgently to the station.”
The words feel like a script he has recited a dozen times before, polished of sincerity.
His partner adds with measured gravity, “While it may not be necessary right now, you might need to come to the station later if new information surfaces regarding this case. As you can understand, we are on high alert. We will do our best not to inconvenience you, but we ask that you remain prudent in your responses. In the meantime, if you happen to recall anything significant, please reach out to us immediately.”
I nod slowly, still clutching the tray. A polite gesture, though my mind hums with unease. Their words do not quite match their demeanour; the polite finality in their tone speaks of an ending rather than a pause. It feels too clean, too abrupt, like an exit contrived for convenience.
There is no call from the station—of that much, I am certain. They have simply run out of questions to ask me, or perhaps they have found something they are unwilling to share yet. Still, I cannot fathom why they feel the need to dress up their retreat in formal words and half-veiled threats.
Then again, I suppose the police are famous for their mystique. Their motives, their manners, all steeped in a sense of deliberate obscurity.
I am, however, mildly irritated that they made me open two bottles of water for nothing.
I escort them to the door, watching as they step out into the evening’s fading light, their figures receding toward the street. When the door clicks shut, I allow myself a quiet exhale before turning back toward the living room.
The air feels emptier now, but not entirely quiet.
As I move to clear the table, Pablo grumbles from where he lies upon the coffee table, his pages fluttering slightly as if rustled by a phantom breeze.
“They took pictures,” he mutters indignantly.
