After I Learned My Groom Murdered My Brother

I was halfway down the sixth-floor corridor when I heard it.

"Dana Wells?"

I stopped.

Two nurses stood at the station. The younger one held a tablet, scrolling. "Yeah. Flagged for incomplete follow-up documentation. Four entries. All from Dr. Turner's clinic."

The other nurse shrugged. "Probably just moved. Changed insurance. You know how it is."

"Should I close the file?"

"Ask Dr. Turner when she's back."

I stood there. People moved past me. A gurney. A resident with coffee. Someone's pager going off.

Dana Wells.

Destiny.

She sat in my exam room. Four times. I looked into her eyes across the table. Asked her questions. Explained the procedure. Held her hand while the anesthesia took effect.

She looked at me and said nothing.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Too bright. Always too bright.

I pressed my palm against the wall. The paint was cool. Smooth.

I had touched her. Cared for her. With my own hands.

And she let me.

"Dr. Turner?" One of the nurses was looking at me now. "Are you okay?"

I nodded. Pushed off the wall. Kept walking.

But my legs felt strange. Like they belonged to someone else.

---

The text came Thursday night.

*Can we talk? Please. Just once. I made us a reservation at Aureole. 8 PM tomorrow. I'll be there either way. —L*

I stared at the message.

Aureole. The restaurant where he proposed. Where the waiter knew our order before we sat down.

I should've deleted it.

But I didn't.

---

I walked in at eight fifteen.

The hostess recognized me. Her smile faltered. "Dr. Turner. Mr. Harrison is waiting for you."

She led me through the dining room. Past tables of couples leaning close. Past the bar where we used to sit when we were too young to afford the wine list.

Levi stood when he saw me.

He'd chosen the corner table. The one with the view of the city lights. Our song was playing. Something soft and old that I used to love.

On the table: a bottle of the Châteauneuf-du-Pape from our first date. Two glasses already poured. And a small silver frame.

I looked at the photograph. Me and Levi at twenty-four. His arm around my shoulders. Both of us laughing at something I couldn't remember anymore.

"Hi." His voice was quiet. Careful. "Thank you for coming."

I sat down.

He sat across from me. Hands folded on the table. No sudden moves.

"I know you don't want to hear this," he said. "But I need to say it anyway."

I said nothing.

He took a breath. "I've been thinking about the night Flynn died. Do you remember? You called me at three in the morning. You couldn't breathe. I drove to your apartment and you were on the floor in the hallway. You couldn't get the key in the lock."

I remembered.

"I carried you inside," he continued. His voice cracked. Just slightly. "You didn't cry. You just kept saying his name. Over and over. I held you until the sun came up."

He reached across the table. Stopped just short of my hand.

"Every trip we took. Every letter I wrote. Every time I showed up at the hospital at two in the morning with coffee—" His eyes were wet now. Real tears. "That was real, Violet. That was love. The only real thing in my life."

He pulled a small box from his pocket. Velvet. Blue.

Opened it.

A new ring. Different from the first. Simpler. More expensive.

"I made a mistake," he said. "The worst mistake of my life. But I'm not giving up on us. I can't."

The pause was perfect. Three seconds. Long enough to let the words settle.

Then he looked up. Met my eyes.

I watched him.

Watched the exact moment his voice would crack again. Watched his hand tremble just enough. Watched the tear slide down his cheek at precisely the right time.

It was flawless.

Choreographed.

Rehearsed.

"I need a little more time," I heard myself say.

Something flashed behind his eyes. Fast. Bright.

Triumph.

Then it was gone. Replaced by hope. Relief.

"Of course." He closed the box. Slipped it back into his pocket. "Take all the time you need. I'll wait."

He smiled.

I smiled back.

And felt absolutely nothing.

---

She was waiting in the stairwell Tuesday morning.

I'd just finished rounds. Was heading down to the parking garage. Pushed open the door to the stairs and there she was.

Destiny.

Sitting on the landing between floors. Mascara streaked down her face. Coral lipstick smudged.

She looked up when she heard me.

"You're really going to take him back, aren't you?" Her voice was raw. Shaking.

I stopped on the top step.

"He told me," she continued. "About the dinner. The ring. He said you just need time." She stood up. Unsteady. "You don't deserve him. You never did. You're cold. You're—"

"Destiny—"

"No!" She stepped closer. "You think you're so perfect. So smart. But you don't know anything. You don't know him. Not really."

Her hands were shaking. Her breathing too fast.

"He loves me," she said. "He's always loved me. You were just—" She stopped. Swallowed. "This was always going to happen."

I looked at her. At the girl I used to read bedtime stories to.

"Go home, Destiny."

"You think you know everything." Her voice cracked. Rose. "You think you're the victim. But you don't even know what really happened to your brother."

The stairwell went silent.

Completely silent.

Destiny's eyes went wide. Her hand flew to her mouth.

"I didn't—" She backed up. Hit the railing. "I didn't mean—"

She turned and ran.

Down the stairs. Her footsteps echoing. The door on the ground floor slamming shut.

I stood on the landing.

The fluorescent light buzzed overhead.

My heart was beating. Steady. Slow.

I pulled out my phone.

Scrolled to a name I hadn't called in over a decade.

Felicity Webb.

Flynn's widow.

I pressed dial.

She answered on the third ring.

"Violet?" Her voice was surprised. Cautious. "Is everything okay?"

"No," I said quietly. "I need your help."

Silence.

Then: "Tell me what you need."

I looked down at the empty stairwell. At the scuffed linoleum. At the place where Destiny had been standing.

"I need to know how my brother really died."