CHAPTER 39
The week after Daphne's birthday carried a deceptive calm.
The bookstore held its familiar rhythm: the soft chime of the bell each time a customer entered, the hush of pages turning, the faint smell of bread Viv baked in the early mornings still clinging to her sweater when she came down to unlock the shop. Sunlight sifted through tall windows, stirring up dust motes that floated like tiny ghosts. To the casual eye, nothing had changed.
But Daphne felt it.
She noticed first in the kitchen, three days after her birthday. Viv was slicing bread, her movements steady and precise. Daphne came up behind her, wrapping her arms around Viv's waist and pressing her cheek against the curve of her shoulder.
"Morning," she murmured.
Viv stilled—just for a second, her body taut under Daph's embrace—before she softened and leaned back ever so slightly.
"Morning," Viv replied, voice even, almost too even.
Daphne let her arms slip away, masking the sting with a smile as she reached for a mug. The moment clung to her like a burr, small but nagging, clicking against every thought she carried through the day.
At work the next afternoon, the office was slow. Daph scrolled her phone out of boredom, thumb stopping when a headline caught her eye:
Inside the Prison Walls – The Mystery of Alexine Vause.
Her heart lurched. She tapped the link before she could stop herself.
The thread was filled with speculation, half-truths, and outright fiction: whispers about a clever inmate who had outsmarted guards, stories of alliances and rivalries. Most of it was nonsense. But one post made her stomach clench—someone mentioned "Alexine" spending a lot of time with a blonde prisoner from a wealthy family.
Daphne's breath came shallow. She was well aware that it was just a mission, telling herself that some idle prisoner wrote it when they had nothing better to do. And yet the detail pierced her, stuck fast like a thorn. She locked her phone with more force than necessary and shoved it into her bag.
I trust her. I do. I have to.
That evening, over dinner, she tried to shake it off. She served roasted vegetables, slid Viv a plate, and made a joke about Duke Pudding's latest attempt to climb into the cupboards. Viv smiled faintly, but her eyes kept drifting elsewhere, pupils unfocused as though she were replaying a different scene altogether.
"You're quiet," Daphne said, watching her fork push food across her plate.
"Just tired," Viv answered. A soft smile again, polite, closed.
Daphne nodded, but the unease coiled tighter in her chest.
Later that night, a storm rattled faintly outside. Daph woke in the darkness, disoriented, until she heard it: Viv's voice, hushed and fragile, carrying through the quiet.
"Samira."
The name cracked the air open. Daphne froze, her pulse slamming in her ears. She turned on her side, staring into the dark, listening as Viv shifted restlessly beside her.
Her throat burned with the urge to shake Viv awake, to demand: Samira? Are you still hung up on her? Or are you feeling regret? What else haven't you told me?
Instead, she stayed still. Silent. The question lodged in her like a splinter.
By morning, Viv was herself again—measured, efficient, tying her hair back, pouring tea, feeding Duke Pudding with the same absent-minded tenderness. She kissed Daphne on the cheek before leaving for the shop, as though nothing had happened.
To Viv, nothing had shifted.
To Daphne, the walls of their home were already tilting, invisible cracks running beneath the paint. And she carried her silence, heavy as stone, straight toward the inevitable fracture.
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