Chapter 4

The thought flashed by, then was quickly covered by a deeper indifference. He would lose his mind. Ariana was right. The spiritual pillar he relied on, the perfect illusion he had worshipped for ten years, had crumbled to dust. I could almost picture him now, eyes bloodshot, refusing to believe, like a cornered animal pushed to the brink.

My phone vibrated again. It was Ariana, sending a string of voice messages. I played one. It was all sobs. "Eva. Have you found Robert yet? What do we do? How can they slander Hailey like this? She's such a good child. Robert can't handle this. You have to find him."

I turned the phone face down on the table, muffling that desperate cry under the cold surface.

The small pot on the stove still held the soup I'd made for him that morning. I served myself a bowl and ate slowly. The warmth in my stomach brought a little clarity to my thoughts.

I knew where he was.

In this city, there weren't many places where he could bury his head like an ostrich.

I pushed open the heavy wooden door with a groan, and a thick, murky air hit me, the heavy scent of cigarette smoke mixed with the sour tang of stale beer and sweat. The light was dim, the cheap speakers blaring deafening rock music. And there, in the deepest corner booth, hunched over, was the familiar figure I knew I'd find.

Robert was slumped deep into a worn-out leather sofa, a dozen empty beer cans littering the table in front of him. His hair was disheveled, his face ashen, his eyes empty as they stared at a phone on the table with a cracked screen. On the screen was a frozen, enlarged photo of Hailey, smiling gently during a speech.

I walked over and sat down across from him. The thumping bass made my own heart shudder in my chest.

He slowly raised his head, bloodshot eyes taking a moment to focus before recognizing me. His lips moved, but no sound came out, only twisting into a grimace. Then, he grabbed a half-empty beer can, tilted his head back, and gulped it down fiercely. Golden liquid trailed down his Adam's apple, soaking the front of his shirt.

"It's fake..." His voice was hoarse like sandpaper. "All fake... Deepfake. Someone's jealous of her." He waved the beer can, his arm dropping weakly. The can clattered to the floor and rolled away. "She's not like that. She's so pure. So clean. She..."

He choked, a rattling sound coming from his throat like a dying animal. His body trembled uncontrollably; the alcohol seemed to have finally shattered his willpower. He bent over sharply, burying his face in his hands. Stifled, broken sobs escaped through his fingers, mingling with the deafening drumbeat from the bar, an utterly wretched sound.

I watched silently. Watched his shoulders heave violently, watched the dampness seeping between his fingers. A decade of faith, crumbling at this moment. That "white moonlight" that had supported him through his youth, that had made him oblivious to me, turned out to be just a carefully whitewashed clay figure, rotten inside long ago.

No comfort. I just pulled a few rough paper napkins and pushed them onto the table in front of him. The napkins, grease-stained and translucent, lay there in a crumpled heap.

He cried for a long time. Cried until he hiccupped, cried until he collapsed limply into the sofa, utterly spent. The bar switched to an even more raucous electronic track. Multicolored spotlights swept over his tear-and-snot-streaked, pathetic face.

He lifted his swollen eyes, looking at me blankly, his gaze unfocused, his words slurred. "Eva... Tell me... Why did she lie? She had... everything..."

I picked up the only glass on the table that looked relatively clean, a half-full glass of lemon water. I took a sip. The sharp, cold sourness spread across my tongue. "No idea," I said, my voice calm, almost drowned out by the deafening music. "Maybe... the moon got too cold. Maybe it just wanted to feel a little warmth from the world down here." But that warmth burned too bright, and in the end, it consumed her instead.

Robert blinked blankly, seeming not to understand, or perhaps the alcohol had completely numbed his mind. He let out a long, alcoholic belch, his head lolled to the side, and he passed out completely.

Robert got sick.

Not physically. Mentally. After coming back from the bar, he didn't go to work for three days. He shut himself in his room, curtains drawn tight, lying on the narrow single bed like a soulless shell. His phone, screen shattered, was tossed in a corner.