2026-11-03 11:29:58“Yes,” I say.
I don't know where the word comes from. It isn't belief. I have five years of evidence telling me exactly how this ends. Still, I cannot bring myself to refuse the only person trying to help me.
So I say yes and watch Camille understand that I mean it.
We walk to the front door together. It stands open, as it usually does now, because she comes and goes through it as though a door is a simple thing.
The corridor beyond is quiet. The carpet, the elevator at the far end catching the hallway light. I have watched them for years from the safe side of this threshold, imagining what it might feel like to cross it.
Camille takes my hand.
Her palm is warm. I focus on that instead of the corridor, on the gentle pressure of her fingers around mine. She doesn't tell me everything will be fine or promise that nothing will happen.
She simply stays beside me.
“Whenever you're ready,” she says. “It's your choice.”
I look at our hands and take the first step.
My foot lands on the carpet. Nothing happens. The floor remains solid beneath me, and although my heart is beating harder than it should, I am still standing.
I take the second step.
Both feet are now beyond the doorway. Camille moves with me, half a pace behind, allowing me to decide how far I can go.
For one impossible second, I think I might manage it.
Then I take the third step.
The corridor changes.
It happens between one blink and the next. The elevator slips farther away, retreating into a darkness that stretches the walls beyond their proper distance. The ceiling seems to disappear, leaving nothing above me but shadow.
The carpet is gone.
Water spreads beneath my feet, dark and still, and I feel the cold seep through my shoes. There is no solid floor beneath the surface. Only the impossible sensation of standing where nothing should be able to hold me.
At the far end, where the elevator stood, there is a chair.
The figures are gathered around it.
Their faces disappear into the darkness, but I can see the ropes in their hands. They stand motionless in the water, waiting as they always do.
The water rises to my knees.
Camille's hand is still in mine.
I can feel her warmth. I can feel the water. My mind refuses to choose between them, and the effort of holding on to both makes something inside me begin to unravel.
“Dorian.”
Her voice reaches me from somewhere close.
“Look at me.”
I turn towards her. For a moment, I see her face against the familiar corridor, her eyes fixed on mine. The real hallway flickers behind her, and I try to hold on to it.
But the darkness keeps drawing my attention back.
The figures remain at the far end. The water shifts around my legs, and the chair waits beyond them.
I try to take another step.
My body refuses.
My legs feel disconnected from the rest of me. My chest tightens, and when I try to draw a full breath, it catches somewhere inside me. I reach for another, but it comes just as shallow.
Camille says something else. I hear her voice, but the words no longer make sense. Her grip changes, both her hands holding mine now, and I know she's trying to help.
I cannot tell her what I need.
I don't know what I need.
The corridor stretches into darkness, and I cannot move.
Then my body makes the decision for me.
I stumble backwards, retreating towards the doorway. I barely register the movement. One moment, I'm standing in the water; the next, I'm stumbling across the threshold into the apartment.
The carpet is carpet again.
The walls are where they belong. The water is gone.
My knees give way, and I sink to the floor just inside the door.
For a few seconds, I can do nothing but sit there, struggling to breathe. I press one palm against the floor.
Solid.
I press harder, as though the pressure might convince the rest of me.
Solid. Real.
I keep my eyes closed.
Three steps.
I managed three steps.
The thought settles over me, heavier than it should. I try to slow my breathing, counting silently as I draw air into my lungs, but my chest still feels tight.
The shame comes afterwards, familiar and unwelcome. Beneath it lies the exhaustion, the hollow feeling that follows every failed attempt, as though something has been taken from me.
She wanted this time to be different.
So did I.
That is what hurts most. I had stood beside her, felt her hand in mine, and allowed myself to imagine that perhaps I could do it. Not because the fear had disappeared, but because someone was there with me.
I wanted it badly enough to say yes.
And still, I couldn't take another step.
I remain on the floor, unable to look at the open doorway. I know Camille is nearby. I can sense her presence, but I cannot bring myself to open my eyes and see her expression.
I don't want to find disappointment there.
I don't want to discover that, after everything, she sees only what I cannot do.
The silence stretches.
My heart pounds violently against my ribs. I try to draw in a breath, but my lungs seem incapable of taking in enough air. Each attempt leaves me more desperate than the last. I press a trembling hand against my chest, fighting to steady myself, fighting to remain conscious.
Then I hear her move.
Her footsteps carry her away from me, across the threshold and into the corridor. I hear the faint sound of her shoes against the carpet, growing quieter as she approaches the stairwell.
She's going to get my medication.
I know that. I understand it.
But understanding doesn't stop the panic from tightening its grip. I want to call her name, to ask her not to leave me alone, even for a moment. I try to open my mouth, but no words come. My tongue feels heavy, and the room begins to tilt around me.
I force my eyes open.
The doorway is still there, but Camille is gone.
I stare at the empty space where she stood, fighting to keep my eyes focused, fighting to hold on to the little awareness I have left.
Just a little longer, I tell myself.
I try to count my breaths, but I lose track after two. My heartbeat stutters wildly, and a cold numbness spreads through my fingers. The floor beneath me seems to drift farther away.
I blink hard, trying to clear the darkness gathering at the edges of my vision.
I need to stay awake.
I need to see her come back.
But my eyelids grow heavier, and the room slips out of focus. I try to hold on to the sound of her footsteps, to the knowledge that she is coming back, but even those thoughts begin to dissolve.
The last thing I see is the open doorway.
Then the darkness takes me.
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The Missing Page
Camille says the name again, more slowly this time, as though repeating it might make it mean something smaller.“Whitmore Global Holdings.”She turns to me.“Isn't that Nathan's family company?”I look down at the cover page and read the name again, the way you check the spelling of a word you already know, hoping the letters might rearrange themselves into something else.They do not.“It's more than his family's company,” I say. “The Whitmores weren't business contacts. They weren't people my parents happened to know. They were family. Not by blood, but by the other thing. The thing that's supposed to be harder to break.”I hear how my voice sounds, but I keep going.“My father and Nathan's father were close before either of us existed. My mother and Nathan's mother were just as close. Their friendship came first, long before any of us were born. And at some point, my father and Nathan's father started a company together.”I tap the name on the page.“This one. They founded it toge
The Case Before the Crash
Camille's hand closes over mine.She says nothing about the message at first. Her thumb moves once across my knuckles before she asks, quietly, “How much do you trust Nathan?”I do not answer.It is not that I have no answer. It is that I have two, and they refuse to exist in the same sentence.There is the Nathan who came when no one else did. The one who sat with me through the first year, who stayed when grief made me difficult to reach, who has remained the one unbroken line between me and the world for ten years. That Nathan is someone I would trust with anything.Then there are the last few days. The arrangement he made without asking me. The instructions he gave Camille to monitor my movements, even inside my own home. The questions about which rooms I enter and what I do behind closed doors.And now this message.Have you located any suspicious room?I read it again, searching for a harmless explanation. A concerned friend trying to understand something he does not know how to
The Evidence That Never Existed
I answer the phone.“Mercer.”“Dorian.” His voice is careful, as always, but something in it tells me this call is different. “I’ve got something. I don’t know what it means yet, so don’t jump to conclusions. But you should hear it from me.”Beside me, Camille goes still. Her shoulder remains against mine, but her attention has shifted entirely to the conversation.“Go on,” I say.“The traffic investigator who worked your parents’ accident. I finally tracked him down. He’s retired now, living out of state.” I hear the rustle of paper. “He remembers the night clearly. And he remembers a truck.”The word settles heavily in my chest.“He says he recorded it in his original report. The vehicle details and the markings on the side. He remembers standing on that road in the rain, writing everything down.”“And the report in the evidence box?”“It says he saw no truck.”For a moment, I cannot speak.“His own report?” I ask.“His name is on it. But what’s in the evidence box contradicts what
The Call Neither of Us Wanted
I open my eyes.For once, I surface from sleep without fighting my way out of black water. No sudden gasp, no frantic search for something to hold on to. I simply wake, slowly and peacefully, and it takes me a moment to understand why that feels so unfamiliar.It is the best sleep I have had in years.Then I feel the arms around my neck.Camille.She is sitting on the edge of my bed, leaning over me, her arms wrapped tightly around my neck. When she pulls back to look at me, I see her swollen eyes and the tear tracks on her cheeks.The relief that crosses her face is so immediate that I almost don't know what to do with it."You're awake."Her voice trembles.I look around, trying to piece together how I got here. The last thing I remember is the open doorway, the floor slipping away beneath me, and the darkness closing in.I don't know how many hours have passed, but Camille looks as though she's spent every one of them worrying."I'm here," I manage.She pulls me into another embrac
The Distance Between Us
“Yes,” I say.I don't know where the word comes from. It isn't belief. I have five years of evidence telling me exactly how this ends. Still, I cannot bring myself to refuse the only person trying to help me.So I say yes and watch Camille understand that I mean it.We walk to the front door together. It stands open, as it usually does now, because she comes and goes through it as though a door is a simple thing.The corridor beyond is quiet. The carpet, the elevator at the far end catching the hallway light. I have watched them for years from the safe side of this threshold, imagining what it might feel like to cross it.Camille takes my hand.Her palm is warm. I focus on that instead of the corridor, on the gentle pressure of her fingers around mine. She doesn't tell me everything will be fine or promise that nothing will happen.She simply stays beside me.“Whenever you're ready,” she says. “It's your choice.”I look at our hands and take the first step.My foot lands on the carpet
The Door I Never Opened
For a few seconds, neither of us moves.She is awake, and I am bent over her, with almost nothing separating her mouth from mine. I can feel her breath against my lips, and I know she can feel mine. The room has gone unnaturally still around the fact of it.Her eyes hold mine. I cannot read what is in them. I am not entirely sure what is in my own.Then we pull back at the same instant, both of us moving too quickly, as though the floor has tilted beneath us. I straighten on the bed. She sits back on her heels beside the chair she must have abandoned hours ago.“I'm sorry,” I say. “I was…”“You hadn't come out.”She speaks quickly, cutting across my unfinished sentence.“Since last night. Since we…” She gestures vaguely between us, referring to the argument without naming it. “You didn't come out, and you didn't eat. I know what the nights do to you, so I came to check on you. You were asleep, and I was going to leave, but then I just…”She stops. Her fingers turn over in her lap as s
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