Grief is supposed to be loud. That's what Sierra thought as
she stood alone in the kitchen, staring at the coffee maker like it had
personally betrayed her. Her hands didn't shake; her breath didn't hitch. If
she closed her eyes, she could almost pretend that it was any other morning –
one where Clayton would wander in, complaining about the lake fog and the way
it "crept into his bones." Instead, the house felt lighter. That scared her
more than the body upstairs. She pressed her palms flat against the counter,
grounding herself. The detectives would notice everything. The lack of tears.
The perfect posture. The fact that she had changed clothes before they arrived.
People always did. She hadn't changed to look presentable. She's changed
because the night still clung to the fabric.
The last conversation replayed in fragments in her head, the
way trauma refuses to organize itself. Clayton at his desk. The photo in his
hand. That "look-not fear" calculation. "You don't understand," he said
quietly. "This isn't finished." "You should let it die," Sierra replied. He
laughed then. A short, humorous laugh. "That's what you said the last time."
She hadn't denied it.
Sierra took a seat in Clayton's chair at his desk. She
adjusted it carefully, lowering the seat a couple of inches down. Clayton
always liked it higher because he enjoyed looking down on everyone, even when
seated. Her gaze broke loose and turned her towards the bookshelf behind her.
Binders and folders took up nearly the entire bookshelf. Years and years of
research and notes written in his calligraphic handwriting. It was then that
Sierra noticed how deep and dangerous Clayton's job was to him. She grabbed a binder,
and there were names circled, dates underlined three times, and every page was
signed by Clayton to prove that the notes and research belonged to him. When he
started digging, he could never stop. He could never just leave bones alone;
that's what got him killed.
The doorbell rang. Sierra didn't move. It rang again, longer
this time. When she finally opened the door, Detective Spelling stood there
alone, rain dotting her coat, eyes already scanning the threshold. "Mrs.
Moore," she said. "May I come in?" "It's Ms. Brown," Sierra said. "Right, my
deepest apologies." Sierra stepped aside. They walked in silence until the
detective stopped in front of the desk. The chair had been removed. The blood
cleaned. Only the faint metallic smell lingered, like a secret the room refused
to forget. "You were awake last night," Maria said. It wasn't a question. Sierra
smiled faintly, "I didn't say that." "You didn't have to." Maria turned the
planner toward her. Yesterday's page. The empty space where the photograph had
been found. "He was expecting someone," Maria continued. "Someone he
recognized." Sierra looked out the window. "You loved him?" Maria asked. "Yes,"
Sierra replied. It was true. Love didn't require mercy.
Detective Spelling said that she had a few more questions.
Questions were dangerous. Answers were
worse. Maria looked around as the rain started again. It blurred the windows
and softened everything enough to make a lie feel plausible. "You never
mentioned the transcripts from Clayton's court appearances," Maria said. Sierra
didn't ask which ones. "I didn't know they existed," she said instead. Maria
gave her a glare, waiting for her face to crack. It didn't. "You know the
girl's name," Maria asked. This time, it was a question. "Yes," Sierra replied
with fear. "Great, what was her name?" "Camila Maxwell." "Did Clayton kill
her?" "No." "Did he help cover it up?" Sierra met her eyes. "That depends on
how you define help." Maria's pen took a fast pause. Silence surrounded the
room. The only sound was occasional rolling thunder. "He thought he was fixing
the problem," Sierra said. "He always did." Maria gave her a scary glance. "And
you?" Sierra's face shaped into what seemed to be a fake smile. "I always
thought he was making it worse." Maria thanked Sierra for her time and exited
the house. Sierra looked out the window, watching her drive away. Then she let
out a deep breath.