A Lover's Betrayal

The air in Alex’s apartment, usually so filled with the scent of old books and something vaguely like cinnamon, now felt thick and cloying, like stale perfume. Moonlight, slivering through the blinds, painted stripes across the Persian rug, stripes that seemed to writhe and twist like the answers I was desperately trying to find. I clutched the small, tarnished locket in my hand, its cool metal a stark contrast to the burning in my chest. It was Mama’s. And Alex had it.

“You found it,” Alex said, his voice a low murmur from the doorway. He leaned against the frame, a silhouette against the dim hallway light. He looked impossibly calm, impossibly beautiful, and impossibly terrifying.

“Yes, Alex,” I managed, my voice a thin thread. “I found it. Tucked away in your desk drawer. Along with… other things.” The words tasted like ash. I didn’t need to list them. The missing posters, the cryptic newspaper clippings, the small, dried flowers that looked suspiciously like the ones that grew by the creek where Mama used to take me.