Monica stood before the police station, her fingers clenched tightly around the strap of her bag. The December sun beat lightly on her skin, but her insides churned with a storm. Her legs felt heavy, her breath uneven.
She had rehearsed this moment in her head a thousand times — how she would walk into the station, state her claim with unwavering clarity, and hold the man responsible for Davis's death accountable.
Logan Smith.
The name echoed in her mind like a drum. Cold. Calculated. Dangerous. The very thought of him made her chest tighten — not from fear, but from the weight of something deeper. Something she hadn't yet dared to name.
She adjusted the strap of her bag again, more out of nervous habit than necessity. Inside, nestled between her notebook and house keys, was nothing — no real proof.
Just a memory of a message she had once read on Davis's phone — a vague threat from someone he had named Logan. The phone had since been wiped, the letter long gone, and her only witness now lay in ashes.
Her throat tightened.
What am I even doing here? She questioned herself.
Her legs moved slowly, unwillingly, away from the station. With every step, her resolve faltered further. She crossed the street without looking back, each footstep growing heavier with shame and helplessness. By the time she reached the bus stop, the fury she had carried for days had dwindled into quiet frustration.
She returned home to silence. The apartment felt colder than usual, almost unwelcoming. Dropping her bag by the door, Monica sank into the couch, burying her face in her hands.
The memories came, uninvited and sharp.
Davis's funeral.
It had all happened too fast. The bombing had been on a Tuesday. By Wednesday, the military had cremated the bodies — what was left of them. Davis's corpse, or what they claimed was his, had been unrecognizable. Just a sealed box. A few of his personal effects. A folded flag.
There had been no viewing. No chance to say goodbye.
Monica had stared at the casket, hollow and detached. There were no tears then — just disbelief and a strange numbness that wouldn't lift. Even now, she wasn't sure if what they buried was truly him. She hadn't seen the body. No one had. All she had were the memories — some sweet, some frustrating — and a growing list of unanswered questions.
---
Few people had attended the funeral.
It had been as scanty as her wedding to Davis — quiet, reserved, and over in less time than it should've taken. A few of Davis's fellow soldiers had sent flowers. Only two had shown up in person, and even they had looked uncomfortable in their stiff uniforms, unsure of what to say to a young widow who looked broken.
Monica hadn't minded.
In fact, she doubted she could've handled anything more. Too many condolences would've felt like lies — people mourning a man they barely knew, offering scripted words she didn't have the strength to receive. The silence, the absence, felt oddly fitting. She hadn't just lost a husband. She had lost answers.
She hadn't known how to cry that day. She still didn't.
Now, days later, she sat alone on the couch, haunted more by uncertainty than grief. Davis had been many things — kind, sometimes aloof, dutiful — but a passionate husband? No. If anything, he had been more of a familiar presence, someone she respected, maybe even admired at times… but not someone she had deeply loved.
---
Back home, Monica sat at the edge of her bed, staring at nothing in particular. The small apartment was silent except for the distant hum of traffic and the slow creak of the ceiling fan. Her eyes were dry now, but her mind wasn't at rest.
She rose and moved to the old wooden drawer beside the bed. Inside were pieces of Davis's life—his wristwatch, and a photograph of them on their wedding day.
That evening, when Liana stopped by with groceries and casual conversation, Monica couldn't resist asking about Logan Smith.
"You mean the General?, he's a respected man," Liana said carefully, lowering her voice. "Feared. Decorated. But people say he's dangerous when crossed. Why do you ask?"
Monica gave a tight-lipped smile and shrugged. "Just curious."
Later that night, while scrolling her phone, a notification popped up—a listing for a private tutoring and live-in nanny position posted by a "Mr. L. Smith." She froze.
It was the same name. Same initials. Same city.
Her fingers hovered over the screen. Maybe this was the only way to get answers. To get close enough.
To find the truth.