Suspicion coiled in Gwen’s gut, tight and snaky. What did Elizabeth want? Was this grief making her soft? Or was there something else—something Gwen was missing? But then she thought of the empty house waiting for her, its rooms silent except for the tick of Albert’s old clock, and that emptiness felt heavier than any doubt. She nodded, her throat tight. “Sure. Cornerstone’s fine.”
As they walked, leaves crunched under their feet, red and gold and crisp. Gwen stole glances at Elizabeth, who stared straight ahead, her jaw set. “You never liked this café,” Gwen said before she could stop herself. It slipped out, a relic of a time when she’d tried to bond—when she’d suggested Cornerstone for Elizabeth’s 18th birthday, only to be told, “It’s too stuffy. I’m going with my friends.”
Elizabeth’s shoulders tensed. “I was 18,” she said, quiet. “I thought I knew everything.” She didn’t elaborate, and Gwen didn’t press. Some wounds were too old to pick at, even now.
Cornerstone Café was tucked between a bookstore and a tailor’s shop, its windows fogged with steam. Inside, the air smelled of freshly baked sourdough and cinnamon rolls, and a jazz piano played softly from a speaker in the corner. They took a booth by the window, the vinyl seats cracked but warm. Gwen ordered tomato soup—Albert’s go-to when she was sick—and Elizabeth asked for a turkey sandwich, “no mayo, extra mustard,” the way Albert had always ordered it. Gwen’s throat tightened.
Conversation stumbled at first, awkward as a first date. They talked about the weather (“Cold for October, huh?”), about errands (“I need to pick up Dad’s dry cleaning”), about nothing that mattered. Gwen stirred her soup with a spoon, the metal clinking against the bowl, and waited. She knew this lunch had a purpose—Elizabeth didn’t do small talk. Not with her.
Sure enough, halfway through her sandwich, Elizabeth set it down, her napkin folded neatly beside her plate. “The hotel I booked last night had bedbugs,” she said, and her ears pinkened, like she was embarrassed. “I woke up at 2 a.m. covered in bites. I called every place in town, but everything’s full—funeral season, I guess. The only other option was that motel on Route 10, and… well, you’ve seen it.” She winced. The Route 10 Motel was known for broken windows and drug deals, not comfort.