Page 113 of These Tears

One piece makes me pause – a heavy brooch shaped like a sun, its stamped rays flaring out from a dark-polished centre. I lift it carefully. The dangling plates suddenly chime with the faintest but most damning sound that I’m not entirely certain doesn’t come from inside my own head.

I still until the sound dies, my gaze shifting from Elias to the silver as I trap my breath behind clenched teeth.

Nothing. He doesn’t stir.

Returning the brooch as though it might bite, I move on to a bracelet of tin-silver braid worked into dark reindeer leather. The pieces are old, but well-kept.

These aren’t trinkets. They’re keepsakes. Or maybe even trophies?

I don’t like that last word my mind sputters out.

Trophies mean other people. Other stories. Other hands that might have worn these before they ended up in his drawer.

Whatever I thought I knew before, I’m beginning to realise I have no idea how deep Elias’ darkness goes.

My camera whispers to me atop the desk like it always does, its hunger reaching me all the way from there.

Not now. Not now.

I close the drawers quietly and pivot towards the wardrobe as I keep my eyes on him.

Mum used to hide our CitizenCards when we were teenagers, convinced it would stop Anna and me from drinking when we planned to go out: no ID, no booze. We became masters at sniffing out her hiding places.

I know how to read creases in fabric and how to feel for foreign weight where none should be.

Sure, a wardrobe is the obvious choice, but at least I can’t say I haven’t tried.

So my fingers do the work, ghosting through Elias’ shirts and jumpers. I do my best to ignore his earthy fragrance that hits the back of my throat in an instant.

God, even his scent is an ambush.

And then—

The tip of my ring finger grazes something solid.

My pulse flatlines, eyes darting to the duvet where the bulk of him rises and falls with the slow rhythm of his breathing.

It can’t be this easy, can it?

Pushing my hand deeper, I grip. Pull.

Fuck yes! My phone!

A low, trembling laugh threatens to break free, but I bury it as I check the side-switch by touch. It’s silent – vibration off.

But then the reason it’s hidden in plain sight sits stark and smug in the notification bar – no signal.

Why would there be signal?

This is hell.

The devil doesn’t install antennas.

Grinding my molars, I scan the room in jerky sweeps, desperate for a place to hide this thing. Not somewhere obvious. Not somewhere he’ll brush against in a morning routine.

My eyes fall to the empty picture frames. And hold.

Thick wood, deep backs.