Chapter 12: The Waiting Clue

Evelyn’s scream echoed through the study as the darkness swallowed her whole. She felt herself pulled, weightless and helpless, into something beyond the present—a void where time unraveled and memories bled together.

Then, suddenly, she was there.

The study was no longer in ruins. The bookshelves stood tall, filled with pristine tomes. The fireplace crackled with life, its flames casting golden light across the room. And at the desk, where dust and decay had once reigned, sat Laurence Duvall.

Evelyn froze. He was alive.

His fingers tapped absently against the polished wood, his expression unreadable. A glass of deep red wine rested at his side, untouched. He looked exactly as she had seen in the locket—dark hair neatly combed, sharp eyes filled with something calculating.

And then she saw herself.

Her breath hitched. A vision of her past self—alive, whole, breathing—stood in front of Laurence, her hands clasped in front of her, shoulders stiff. The way she held herself… she wasn’t at ease.

She was afraid.

“Why do you look so pale, my love?” Laurence’s voice was smooth, almost amused. He leaned back in his chair, studying her like a prized possession.

The past Evelyn hesitated, her lips parting as if to speak—but something stopped her.

The glass of wine on the table.

Her ghostly self stared at it, and a horrible realization crawled up her spine.

She knew that glass.

Laurence lifted it, swirling the liquid inside. “It’s unlike you to hesitate.”

Evelyn wanted to scream, to reach through the memory and grab herself, to tell her don’t drink it.

But the past was already written.

Her past self swallowed, then reached for the glass.

And drank.

The moment the wine touched her lips, she staggered. Her fingers trembled, the glass slipping from her grasp and shattering against the floor. A sharp gasp tore from her throat as she clutched her chest.

Laurence remained seated, watching. Not moving to help. Not showing any panic.

He was waiting.

Her past self collapsed.

Evelyn’s vision blurred with the memory. Her limbs felt heavy, as if she, too, was suffocating, her breath stolen by invisible hands.

She hadn’t been stabbed.

She hadn’t been strangled.

She had been poisoned.

Laurence finally rose, stepping around her fallen form. He knelt beside her, brushing a hand over her cheek almost tenderly.

“You should have listened, Evelyn,” he murmured. “I told you… you belong to me.”

A single tear slipped from her past self’s eye as the life drained from her.

Evelyn couldn’t move. She couldn’t breathe.

The memory shattered.

She was yanked back into the ruined study, gasping like she had lungs that could still burn for air. The shadows recoiled, slithering back into the corners of the room.

Azrael’s hand was on her arm, his grip strong. “Evelyn.”

She barely heard him. Her entire form flickered violently, overwhelmed by the truth.

“I—” Her voice shook. “I remember.”

Azrael’s gaze sharpened. “Tell me.”

Evelyn’s lips trembled. She turned to face him, her spectral hands clutching at the remnants of the past.

“I didn’t just know Laurence,” she whispered. “I loved him. And he killed me.”

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