Arabella

I heard the footsteps before I saw him.

I knew it was Marco before the door even creaked open. The way it dragged against the floor sent a chill through me. I could tell he was drunk from one look at him.

He stumbled inside, not even bothering to close the door behind him. His eyes were wild, glassy and bloodshot, his shirt halfway unbuttoned, collar askew like he’d been tearing at it.

“They came for me,” he muttered. “That day at the dress fitting, it was intentional…” His speech was slurred. “It was not a matter of being at the wrong place at the wrong time. It wa—premeditated....