Page 80 of Veil of Smoke

I step to the old record player next. The needle’s stuck, vinyl scratched from her favorite jazz record spinning too many times. I lift the arm, set it down, but no sound comes—just a hiss of dust.

A piano waits in the corner, one key chipped and broken. I press it, and the flat note cuts through me, raw and off-tune. My chest tightens, but I don’t pull away.

“She died in the tub upstairs,” I say, my voice softer than I want.

Dario stands near the couch, watching me. He doesn’t speak, just lets his dark eyes follow my every move, steady and unyielding.

“They said it was a bad mix,” I go on, staring at her picture again. “But it wasn’t. It was a chain. And someone like you handed her the link.”

His face shifts—just a flicker in his eyes, a tightening I catch before it’s gone. He doesn’t argue, doesn’t move, just takes it like a man used to carrying worse.

“You didn’t kill her,” I say, stepping closer to him. “But your world did.”

I turn to the window. My fingers press the fogged glass, cold and slick under my skin, smudging the gray morning outside.

“So don’t tell me I’m still an outsider to this fight,” I say, facing him again. My voice hardens, cutting through the stillness like a blade.

He nods once, sharp and firm. “I won’t.”

I hold his gaze, letting it sink in. Then I turn back to the room, to the ghosts I’ve dragged him here to meet.

The air carries that faint lavender bite, mixed with mildew and memory. I move to the couch, pull the sheet off slow. Dust puffs up, and I sit, sinking into cushions that still hold her shape.

Dario eases down beside me. His knee brushes mine, and I feel the heat of him, solid and real against this faded past.

“She was fierce,” I say, staring at the ceiling where cracks spider out. “Funny too. Wild in a way I never figured out how to be.”

He leans back, hands resting on his thighs. “Sounds like she left a mark.”

“She did,” I say, my voice dipping low. “Got hooked fast. Quietly. Pills traced back to Caldera routes.”

His fingers twitch, a quick jerk he can’t hide. I see it, and it digs into me, sharp and cold.

“One of many,” I say, bitterness creeping in. “Swept up in their quiet death. I never told anyone.” I look at him, full on now. “Never found the supplier. But I knew—deep down—someone like you moved that cargo.”

He exhales, a rough sound that catches in his throat. Doesn’t argue, just lets it sit there between us, heavy and true.

“I don’t blame you,” I say, softer now. “But I don’t spare you either.”

His eyes meet mine, dark and steady. “I don’t expect you to.”

I stand, restless, and pace back to the piano. My fingers hover over the keys, then press a note that rings clear this time—high and haunting.

“I used to play for her,” I say, holding the sound until it fades. “She’d dance, spinning until she crashed into something and laughed.”

He rises too, steps closer. “She sounds like a storm.”

“She was,” I say, turning to him. “And she’s why I’m here—why I’m with you.”

He stops an arm’s length away. “To burn it down?”

“To bury it,” I correct, voice firm. “All of it—her ghost, their poison, this house.”

He nods, and something settles between us—understanding, maybe trust. His hand brushes my arm, light but there.

I step back, needing space from that touch. “I kept this locked up too long,” I say, moving to the mantle again.

The picture stares back—Camila mid-laugh, frozen in a moment I can’t reach. “She’d hate me hiding like this.”

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