Page 79 of Six of Hearts
I forced myself to keep reading.
*Officers responded to a 911 call at 11:47 p.m. Caller identified as Adam Rowland, husband of victim. Upon arrival, victim was found unresponsive in master bedroom. Paramedics pronounced deceased at scene. No signs of forced entry. No signs of struggle.*
My heart was pounding, but I kept going. The next page was the toxicology report. The levels of secobarbital in Eva's system were astronomical—far beyond what could be accidental. Themedical examiner's notes were clinical, detached: *Manner of death: suicide. Evidence consistent with intentional overdose.*
Then came the witness statements. A neighbour reported hearing raised voices earlier that evening but nothing violent. Eva's therapist had submitted a statement noting she'd been treating Eva for severe depression and borderline personality disorder for two years. There were documented suicide attempts—two previous hospitalisations.
I flipped to the timeline. Adam—Ronan—had been at work until 10:30 p.m. His alibi was airtight, corroborated by security footage and three coworkers. He'd come home to find Eva unresponsive.
The photos were harder to look at. Eva lying in bed, peaceful except for the unnatural stillness. Pill bottles on the nightstand. A glass of water. And yes, there was Ronan—Adam—kneeling beside her, his hand on her shoulder, his face a mask of anguish.
But these weren't the photos I'd been sent. Those had been cropped, manipulated to look sinister. These showed the full scene: the paramedics in the background, the timestamp, the context that changed everything.
I found the detective's notes near the bottom of the file. *No evidence of foul play. Husband cooperative, clearly distraught. Victim's history of mental illness and previous attempts consistent with suicide determination. Case closed.*
There were character statements too. Eva's own mother had written one, and I had to stop reading halfway through because my vision blurred with tears. She talked about Eva's struggles, her refusal to stay on medication, her pattern of pushing away everyone who tried to help. She wrote about Adam's devotion, how he'd tried everything to save her daughter, how he'd never given up even when Eva had given up on herself.
*Adam is a good man who loved my daughter more than she could accept. Her death is a tragedy, but it is not his fault. I hope he can forgive himself, because Eva would want him to be happy.*
I closed the file and pressed my palms against my eyes, trying to process everything I'd just read.
Ronan hadn't killed his wife. He'd tried to save her. He'd loved her, and she'd been too broken to let him, and he'd spent three years carrying that guilt and grief. And then he'd found the courage to love again—to love me—and I'd thrown it back in his face the moment things got hard.
"Oh God," I whispered to the empty room. "What have I done?"
The apartment door opened and Khloe came in, arms full of grocery bags. She took one look at my face and set everything down.
"You read them," she said.
I nodded, unable to speak.
She sat beside me and pulled me into a hug. "What did they say?"
"He didn't do it." The words came out broken. "He didn't kill her. She killed herself, and he tried to save her, and I—" My voice cracked. "I ran. I didn't even give him a chance to explain. I just believed the worst and ran."
"Hey." Khloe squeezed my shoulders. "You were scared. Someone sent you those photos specifically to make you scared. That's not your fault."
"But I should have trusted him. I should have—"
"You're human, Aria. You got scared. But you're here now, reading the truth. That counts for something."
I wiped my eyes and looked at her. "His real name is Adam. Did you know that?"
"I figured it was something like that when you said witness protection." She smiled softly. "That's kind of hot, actually. Very mysterious."
Despite everything, I laughed. "Not hotter than Ronan, though."
"Obviously not." She bumped my shoulder. "So what are you going to do?"
The question hung in the air. What was I going to do?
"I don't know if I can face them," I admitted. "I'm so embarrassed, Khloe. I ran away like a child. I didn't answer their calls. I made them worry, made the kids worry. Noah probably thinks I'm just like all their exes—someone who leaves at the first sign of trouble."
"Are you?" Khloe asked pointedly.
"No!"
"Then prove it. Go home. Tell them you're sorry. Tell them you love them." She grabbed my hands. "Aria, you've been miserable here. You cry yourself to sleep every night. You check your phone every five minutes hoping one of them will text. You're in love with them—all of them—and they're in love with you. Don't let whoever sent those photos win."
