Ethan's POV
I can't sleep.
Every time I close my eyes, I see her face. Not the woman upstairs—her sister. The girl I killed.
Lily Ashford.
I finally know her name. After three years of running from it, hiding from it, drinking to forget it—I know her name.
And her sister is sleeping in the room above my head.
At 6 AM, I give up trying to sleep. My sheets are soaked with sweat even though the house is freezing. I pull on jeans and a T-shirt and head downstairs, moving quietly so I don't wake her.
But when I reach the kitchen, she's already there.
Vivienne stands at my counter making coffee like she owns the place. She's wearing all black—black pants, black shirt. She looks like she's going to a funeral.
Maybe she is. Maybe my funeral.
"Good morning," she says without turning around. Her voice is soft but wrong. Too calm. Like the quiet before a tornado hits.
I freeze in the doorway. "I didn't know you were awake."
"I don't sleep much anymore." She pours coffee into two cups. "Not since Lily died."
My stomach drops at hearing the name out loud. "Vivienne, I—"
"Do you take cream? Sugar?" She finally turns to look at me, and those gray eyes lock onto mine like a prison cell clicking shut.
"Just black," I whisper.
She brings both cups to the small kitchen table and sits down. After a moment, I sit across from her. The chair feels like an electric chair. Like I'm sitting down to receive my sentence.
We drink in silence. The coffee tastes like ash in my mouth.
"This is a nice house," Vivienne says. "Or it was once. Before it started falling apart."
"Yeah. I haven't had much time to fix things." Or money. Or the will to care about anything.
"Things fall apart when you stop taking care of them." Her eyes never leave my face. "People too."
I grip my coffee cup tighter. Is she talking about the house? Or about me? Or about what I did to her family?
"Why are you really here?" The question comes out before I can stop it.
Vivienne tilts her head. "I told you. I needed a room."
"In this neighborhood? In this house? With me?" I shake my head. "You could rent anywhere. You paid three months upfront in cash. People with that kind of money don't end up in places like this."
"Maybe I like broken things." She takes a slow sip of coffee. "Maybe I'm broken too."
"Because of your sister."
The air in the kitchen goes ice cold.
"Yes," Vivienne says quietly. "Because someone took my sister from me and never faced consequences. Because the police gave up. Because whoever killed her is out there somewhere, living their life like nothing happened."
My hands are shaking so badly I have to put the cup down. "The police... they couldn't find who did it?"
"Oh, they found evidence. They just didn't look hard enough." Her voice turns sharp. "Or maybe they didn't want to. Maybe it was easier to close the case and move on. After all, she was just another dead girl. Who cares about justice when there's paperwork to avoid?"
"I'm sure they tried—"
"Don't." The word cracks like a whip. "Don't defend them. Don't defend a system that failed my family. Don't sit there and pretend you know anything about what we've been through."
I should shut up. I should leave. But guilt makes me stupid.
"I'm sorry," I say. "I can't imagine losing someone like that."
Vivienne laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Can't you?"
The way she says it makes my blood freeze. What does she mean? Does she know? How could she know?
"What do you mean?" I ask carefully.
"I mean everyone loses people, Ethan. Death touches everyone eventually." She stands up and walks to the window, looking out at the gray morning. "Some losses are accidents. Some are murder. Some are somewhere in between."
My heart is pounding so hard I think I might pass out. "Vivienne—"
"Did you know that hit-and-run drivers rarely stop?" She keeps her back to me. "They panic. They tell themselves it wasn't that bad. They convince themselves that someone else will help. That they can pretend it never happened." She turns around, and her eyes are full of tears. "Do you think that's what happened with Lily? Do you think the driver told himself lies until he believed them?"
I can't speak. Can't breathe. Can't do anything but sit there while she stares straight through me.
"I think about it every day," she continues. "I imagine him driving home, hands shaking on the wheel. Maybe he was drunk. Maybe he was texting. Maybe he just didn't care enough to look where he was going. And then—impact. A sound he'll never forget. But instead of stopping, instead of calling 911, instead of trying to save her..." Her voice breaks. "He just drove away. Left her dying in the street like garbage."
Tears are running down my face now. I can't stop them.
"Vivienne, please—"
"She died alone, Ethan. Scared and alone and in pain. And somewhere out there, the person who did that to her is sitting in a kitchen drinking coffee like everything is normal."
The words hang in the air between us like a noose.
She knows. She has to know. This isn't a coincidence. She's here because she figured out it was me.
"Why are you telling me this?" My voice cracks.
"Because I thought you should know." She wipes her eyes. "I thought you should understand what that driver took from my family. What he took from me."
"What do you want from me?"
"The truth." She sits back down and leans forward. "I want to know if you believe people can be forgiven for terrible things. Or if some sins are too big to ever wash away."
This is it. This is where I confess. Where I tell her everything and beg for forgiveness I don't deserve.
But before I can speak, there's a loud knock at the front door.
We both jump. Vivienne's hand flies to her chest.
The knocking comes again, harder this time. Aggressive.
"Ethan Cross!" a man's voice shouts from outside. "We know you're in there! Open up!"
My blood turns to ice. That voice. I know that voice.
Moretti's men.
"Who is that?" Vivienne asks.
"Nobody. Just... stay here." I stand up, my legs weak.
"Ethan, who is it?"
The front door crashes open before I can answer. Two large men in expensive suits walk into my house like they own it. Behind them is Vincent Moretti himself, smiling like a shark.
"Good morning, Ethan," Moretti says pleasantly. "Sorry to interrupt breakfast, but we have business to discuss."
His eyes slide past me to Vivienne, and his smile grows wider.
"Well, well. And who is this lovely creature? I didn't know you had company."
Vivienne stands up slowly, her face pale.
"This is my tenant," I say quickly. "She has nothing to do with our arrangement."
"Your tenant?" Moretti walks closer, circling Vivienne like a predator. "How interesting. Tell me, Miss...?"
"Ashford," Vivienne says coldly. "Vivienne Ashford."
Moretti stops circling. His smile vanishes.
"Ashford?" he repeats. "As in the Ashford family? The surgeon's daughter?"
My heart stops. How does he know who she is?
"That's none of your concern," Vivienne says.
"Oh, but it is." Moretti pulls out his phone and shows us both a photo. "Because I make it my business to know everything about everyone connected to my investments. And imagine my surprise when I discovered that Ethan's new tenant is the sister of Lily Ashford—the girl who died in an unsolved hit-and-run three years ago."
The room starts spinning.
Moretti looks between us, his smile returning. "Now why would the victim's sister move into the house of... well. This is fascinating."
"Get out of my house," I say, but my voice is weak.
"Your house?" Moretti laughs. "Ethan, this house is mine. You're just borrowing it until the debt is paid. And since you couldn't make last month's payment..." He snaps his fingers, and his men grab me, one on each arm.
"No!" Vivienne shouts.
"Don't worry, sweetheart. We're just having a conversation." Moretti walks up to me until we're face to face. "Here's what's going to happen. You have one week—seven days—to pay me the full amount. Fifty thousand dollars. Not a penny less."
"I don't have that kind of money—"
"Then you better find it." He glances at Vivienne. "Or maybe your pretty tenant can help. After all, she comes from money. The Ashford fortune is quite substantial, I hear."
"Leave her out of this," I growl.
"That's sweet. Protecting her." Moretti leans closer and whispers so only I can hear: "But does she know she's living with her sister's killer? Or is that still your little secret?"
He pulls back and speaks louder. "One week, Ethan. Or my men will get creative with their collection methods. And trust me—you don't want that."
Moretti and his men leave, the broken front door swinging open behind them.
Vivienne and I stand in the kitchen, not looking at each other.
Finally, she speaks. "Is it true?"
"Is what true?"
"What he said. About you being Lily's—" Her voice breaks. She can't finish the sentence.
I want to lie. I want to run. I want to disappear.
But I'm so tired of running.
"Yes," I whisper. "I'm the one who killed your sister."
The words hang in the air like a death sentence.
Vivienne's face goes completely blank. Empty. Like something inside her just died.
Then she pulls something from her pocket—a small knife, the kind used for cooking.
She must have grabbed it from the counter when Moretti's men came in.
"Vivienne—"
She walks toward me slowly, the knife steady in her hand.
"I've imagined this moment for three years," she says quietly. "Finding you. Confronting you. Making you pay."
"I know."
"I've thought about all the ways I could hurt you. All the ways I could make you suffer like my family has suffered."
I don't move. Don't try to run. If this is how it ends, maybe that's what I deserve.
Vivienne stops right in front of me, the knife between us.
"But now that I'm here," she whispers, tears streaming down her face, "I don't know what to do. Because the man who killed Lily isn't the monster I expected. He's just... broken."
We stand there, inches apart, the truth finally out in the open.
Then Vivienne does something I never expected.
She drops the knife and collapses against my chest, sobbing.
And I hold her while she cries for her sister, for her family, for everything I destroyed.
Behind us, the front door is still open, letting in the cold morning air.
And on the porch, watching us through the broken doorway, is a figure in a dark coat.
The same person who sent Vivienne that text last night.
The person who knows secrets about Lily's death.
They take a photo of us—Vivienne crying in my arms—and walk away into the morning fog.
When I check my phone an hour later, there's a new message from an unknown number.
It's the photo of us embracing, with a message below:
The truth about Lily Ashford's death is bigger than you think. She wasn't just hit by a drunk driver. She was murdered. And Ethan Cross wasn't the only one there that night. Meet me at the old warehouse on Fifth Street at midnight if you want to know who else killed your sister, Vivienne. Come together, or the real murderer walks free forever.
I show Vivienne the phone.
She reads it twice, her face growing paler with each word.
"Someone else was there?" she whispers. "Someone else was involved in Lily's death?"
We stare at each other, and I see the same terrible question in her eyes that's now burning in my mind:
If I wasn't alone that night... who was with me?
And why can't I remember?