Page 5 of The Gloaming

That done, we sat together at my tiny kitchen table, and I picked at the scrubbed, paint-flecked wood. My coffee was too hot to drink, but the bitter aroma and the warmth of the heavy ceramic mug beneath my fingers was soothing.

“Are you going to say something?” He didn’t ask where I’d gone, but I was sure he knew.

I shrugged. I should apologise for running out, but I didn’t.

Tom raised both eyebrows, waiting.

“Do you…” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “What if he’s not really dead?”

I’d been turning it over in the back of my mind since I’d left. If the only explanation was the worst thing I could think of, so be it. It was better than losing him.

Tom’s eyes searched my face as he pulled his mug across the table, understanding in an instant. “I don’t think so. He wouldn’t want that.”

The sun blazed in through the leaded glass of the kitchen window, illuminating his face, and I turned away. Of course he’d say that. And it was true. I knew it. But I’d still hoped.

“This whole thing doesn’t ring right, though. He wasn’t…” He swallowed. “He’s not a suicide.”

I nodded. The empty chair between us where Jonathan usually sat seemed bigger than usual, and it was a struggle not to stare at it.

“I mean, the body, the way he—” Tom’s hands shook, and he dropped his mug to the table with such force that the liquid sloshed over the edges. I stared at the spillage.

“He must have been released fast,” I murmured.

“I guess they didn’t think there was anything to investigate.” He shook his head. “He wasn’t suicidal, and we both know it. But it doesn’t seem like anyone else is going to look into it. It has to be us.”

I nodded. It sounded morbid, which wasn’t exactly out of the ordinary for us – but at least we were on the same page. With Jonathan gone, everything was different. Even if we were wrong – and I didn’t believe that was true – we needed to know.Whoever had done this would be held accountable, I’d make bloody well sure of it.

I spent the rest of Sunday in my armchair, turning the pages of a paperback novel without seeing the words. All I could think about was Jon, and how his death had to be my fault, somehow. I hadn’t protected him enough, hadn’t checked in like I should have… Because the fact of the matter was, anyone connected to me would always be in danger. Of course, I’d thought about it before – but this was the first time the threat had seemed truly real.

While I pondered all this, Tom made what seemed like a hundred phone calls, arranging the things I couldn’t bring myself to help with. At barely thirty, Jon already had a will in place and a funeral plan: we just had to set it in motion. I supposedhe’dunderstood the threat, at least.

As the afternoon drew on, Tom called a few of our friends. It wasn’t a long list these days – people had grown tired of the secrets and excuses, so our circle had grown small. Honestly, I preferred it that way.

“I’m so sorry to—” The person on the other end interrupted Tom. “No. The police told us it was a suicide.” He paused, and I admired his tact as he let the other person speak. “No, neither would I. As soon as we know, of course.”

I knew I should be doing more than just listening in, but I couldn’t talk about Jon in the past tense without my throat closing up. For Tom’s sake, I refused to cry – or so I told myself.

Next on his list was the police department; then the hospital that had carried out the post-mortem. I didn’t know how he’dfound the contact info, but it was Tom, so I wasn’t surprised.

“No, Tomal. No, I’m not. He didn’t have any—” His tone was polite, but he was getting nowhere. “I understand. Could you let us know if there are any updates?”

My mind wandered, and I wandered. I watched the patch of grass I called a garden through the kitchen window for a while, following the patterns the light made and the shadows that crept up behind. I wanted it to rain or snow or, even better, storm. The mild, sunny day seemed wrong, somehow.If my eyes must remain dry, then the heavens should at least open.

Eventually, the house grew silent. Tom dozed off with his notebook still open beside him, the pages full of his tiny, cramped handwriting. The sun slipped below the horizon, the air grew cooler, and our first day without Jonathan was over. I knew he’d been gone for weeks, been dead for days… that I was being silly. But it was different. It was the first day.

2: People Are Either Charming or Tedious

The mingled scent of spearmint and thyme cleared my head as I lathered shampoo into my hair the following morning, the scalding water soothing away the ache in my bones and hammering into the damaged muscles of my back. I breathed the steam deep into my lungs, burning and purifying myself from within – but I didn’t feel any cleaner on the inside.

A faint knock interrupted my ritual, and I turned off the water.

“Yeah?”

“I made coffee, when you’re done.” Tom’s voice called through the closed door.

“I’ll be out in a few.” I climbed out of the shower and wiped the condensation from the mirror over the sink.

My reflection stared back at me, my expression sombre. A faint bruise had started to bloom across my left cheekbone, a souvenir from my most recent fight. Combined with the darkcircles under my eyes, I looked washed out and exhausted, my cool grey eyes almost blue despite the sun streaming in from the tiny bathroom window. I ran a hand through my damp hair, lifting it from the back of my neck and stretching. My appearance didn’t seem like a priority right now.

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