Chapter 4
Rosalind's eyes sparkled.
"This is perfect! I want this one." She moved right up to the camera. "But I want to choose the engraving myself."
"Of course. What would you like it to say, Ms. Sinclair?"
She smiled, all sweetness. "Make it say 'HF loves RS.' Big and clear, so it jumps out at anyone who sees it."
I jotted it down. "Got it. By the way, we can also laser-engrave the inside of the ring, like a date or..."
"December 7th, 2023," Rosalind cut me off. "That's the day Herman proposed to me."
December 7th, 2023.
That was only a week after I "died."
He proposed to her with his family's heirloom ring, while my "body" was barely cold.
I dug my nails into my palm, the pain keeping me grounded.
"That's a really romantic date," I said. "Ms. Sinclair, I'll need your ring size."
"I'll send it to you," Rosalind said, tapping her screen. "By the way, Ms. Wright, you're based in Riverside City, right? I'll be coming over next month to try on the prototype. Is it convenient for us to meet?"
"Absolutely," I smiled. "Just let me know when you arrive. I'll be ready for you."
After the call ended, I collapsed into my chair, cold sweat soaking my back.
Sharon pushed the door open and handed me a steaming cup of coffee. "So, how was she? As high maintenance as they say?"
"She's manageable," I replied, taking the coffee. "Sharon, once this job is done, I want to take a long vacation."
"Where to?"
"Back to Hillcrest City," I said, staring at the ring size Rosalind had sent—size 12, same as my own finger. "Need to deal with some... unfinished business."
Sharon studied me for a few seconds, then sighed, "Evelyn, I don't know what you've been through, but let me give you some advice. Don't take on the rich. We're no match for them."
"I'm not going head-to-head," I replied, taking a sip of coffee, the bitterness lingering on my tongue. "I'm just there to take back what's mine."
That night, I logged into my old email account. The one I hadn't touched in half a year.
My inbox was packed with 127 unread emails, all from Herman. They stretched from last December to this June, almost one a day.
The earliest ones were straight commands.
He wrote: [Arianna, come back. Right now.]
[Don't make me hunt you down.]
[I've already talked to your parents. They're not going to help you.]
But then his tone started to change.
He wrote: [Where did you go? Mary said you left with nothing.]
[The police in Riverside City said they haven't found any bodies matching your description. What are you trying to pull?]
[Arianna, come back. Let's talk.]
In the past two months, his emails started to take a strange turn.
He wrote: [I went to your favorite café today. The owner said you haven't been by in a long time.]
[Your succulent died. I forgot to water it.]
[Rosalind wants the engagement ring engraved. It reminded me that you used to love engraving things, too.]
The last one was sent three days ago.
It read: [I had a dream about you. You were drenched in blood, asking me why I pushed you.]
[Arianna, I swear I didn't mean for that to happen. Rosalind's injury acted up, and I just panicked. Please come back. Let's give it another try.]
My stomach churned as I read them.
Herman, who are you trying to fool with all this sentiment?
I started a new email and entered Herman's private address—the same one I'd memorized years ago, back when he had a high fever late at night and I helped him with his work.
The body of the email was just one line.
I wrote: [Mr. Foster, I heard you're getting married. Congratulations.]
There was no signature.
After hitting send, I shut down my laptop and stepped outside into the garden.