The Next Day
Morning broke over West Monroe, Louisiana, with the slow grace of a southern film reel—mist curling above the Ouachita River like whispered secrets, the water shimmering gold in the early light. The skyline, modest but proud, sat beneath a wide sky streaked with pale lavender and rose. Church spires pierced the horizon, silent sentinels among worn-brick buildings and rusted water towers. Downtown stirred gently to life: neon signs flickered on in dusty diners, a bus hissed to a stop on Trenton Street, and the scent of strong chicory coffee drifted from the open door of a corner café.
But beyond the quiet hum of the waking city, nestled among the overgrown oaks and aging wrought iron fences, sat the West Monroe Psychiatric Center—a gray, hulking building that seemed untouched by time or sunlight. Inside, the world moved differently. Clocks ticked louder. Footsteps echoed longer. Whispers, like shadows, drifted through the halls.
Dr. Lucian Williams sat in his office, staring blankly at a patient file that had gone unread for the past ten minutes. His hands rested idle on the desk, but his mind was elsewhere—looping through thoughts he couldn't quiet. Despite the tragedy that had unfolded just days ago, the hospital ran as if untouched. The halls bustled. Charts were passed between nurses. No one spoke of Dr. Jane Broome's death.
It was as if she'd never existed.
The silence in Lucian's office was broken by the sharp ring of the telephone—twice—and then the creak of the door as it opened.
A staff member stepped in. "Dr. Williams, you have a visitor," he said, his voice neutral but edged with something unsaid.
Lucian looked up, brows furrowed. "Who is it?"
The staffer hesitated. "Elian Crust, sir. He says it's urgent."
Lucian's heart skipped. The name struck like a hammer to glass.
Elian Crust—Jane's fiancé.
Lucian's throat tightened. For a moment, all sound seemed to fade, replaced by the heavy beat of his pulse in his ears. The room felt smaller. Colder.
"What... does he want?" Lucian asked, his tone sharper than intended.
The staff member shifted uncomfortably. "He didn't say. But he's... quite insistent."
Lucian nodded slowly, his mind now a flurry of dread and fragmented memories.
"Show him in," he said at last, steeling himself as the air in the room thickened with anticipation.
Elian Crust entered the office, and Lucian's expression softened into a faint, welcoming smile as he rose from his seat.
"Elian, please—have a seat," Lucian said, gesturing to the chair opposite his desk.
Elian took the seat with a quiet nod, his gaze drifting across the room before settling on Lucian. "Thanks for seeing me, Dr. Williams," he said, his voice low and edged with sadness.
Lucian nodded with sympathy. "Of course, Elian. I'm so sorry about Jane. She was… she was an incredible person."
Elian's eyes brightened slightly as he leaned forward, a bittersweet smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "I met her in New Orleans, you know? At a jazz club in the French Quarter. We hit it off that same night. After that, it was dates to Café du Monde—she loved the beignets. Could never stop talking with powdered sugar on her lips."
Lucian smiled, warmth returning to his expression as memories of Dr. Jane surfaced. "She had a sparkle, didn't she? That kind of joyful chaos. She could light up a room just by walking in."
Elian laughed softly. "Yeah. She was spontaneous, always ready for something new. She hated toads—I teased her constantly about it. But she loved shrimp. Couldn't stand mushrooms, though. Said they tasted like wet socks."
They shared a quiet chuckle, the tension in the room momentarily lifting.
Lucian leaned back, his gaze distant. "Jane became my best friend when I started here. We talked about everything—work, life, even the stupid things that didn't matter. She always listened, always knew what to say. Her death..." His voice faltered. "It's something I still can't quite wrap my head around."
Elian's smile faded. His eyes shimmered with unshed tears, though he tried to keep his composure. "I miss her," he murmured.
Lucian reached across the desk instinctively, his tone gentle. "I know. We all do."
For a few moments, silence filled the room—thick with grief, but shared.
Then Elian shifted, his tone growing more serious, his words careful. "Lucian... I heard you were with her. In the car. During the crash."
Lucian stiffened, the weight of that memory pulling at his shoulders. He looked away, voice roughened by emotion. "Yeah... I was."
A pause. Elian's next words came almost in a whisper. "You survived. But she didn't."
Lucian turned back to meet Elian's gaze. His eyes were heavy, tired. "The nurses said it was a miracle. Sometimes I wonder if they're right. I've asked myself a thousand times why it was me who lived." He swallowed hard. "I still don't have an answer."
The two men stared at each other. Nothing more needed to be said in that moment. The air between them brimmed with loss, regret, and a bond only shared tragedy can forge.
Elian's gaze pierced through Lucian, as though he were searching his soul for answers to questions too painful to voice. Lucian shifted uneasily in his seat, the weight of guilt and grief pressing heavily on his chest.
"I don't know what happened that day," Lucian murmured, his voice barely audible. "One moment we were driving… and the next—everything's a blur."
Elian gave a slow, contemplative nod, his expression inscrutable. "I've been trying to piece it all together," he said quietly. "But there's a gap. Something missing. Do you think… could you try to tell me more about that day?"
Lucian hesitated. The truth felt fragile, buried beneath layers of pain and uncertainty. But something in Elian's voice—its gentleness, its steadiness—unlocked a small door inside him.
"I'll try," Lucian said, his voice trembling. "But I don't know how much I really remember."
A heavy silence settled between them, thick and unyielding. The only sound was Lucian's ragged breathing. Elian never looked away, his eyes fixed on Lucian's face—calm, unwavering, and filled with a quiet intensity. Lucian felt as though he were being drawn into a storm of memory and emotion, unable to resist its pull.
Lucian's eyes fell to the floor, his voice a low murmur as he began to recount the night of the accident.
"We were talking… just talking. Then suddenly, the car crashed. Jane was driving. She… she made a mistake."
Detective Elian Crust's expression tightened. His eyes narrowed, the gears in his mind already turning.
"The car was registered under your name, Mr. Williams," he said evenly, but there was steel in his tone. "Why was Dr. Jane behind the wheel?"
Lucian's gaze flicked to the corners of the room, avoiding Elian's stare. Then, slowly, it returned to meet it.
"We were out that day. I had a few drinks—more than I should have," he admitted. "I didn't feel drunk, but Jane was worried. She insisted on driving. I agreed."
He swallowed. "We were just talking. Nothing unusual. And then… it happened."
Elian tilted his head, studying Lucian with the precision of a scalpel.
"You're saying you were intoxicated… and Dr. Jane took over because she felt you were unfit to drive?"
Lucian gave a single, hesitant nod. "Yes. I wasn't out of it, but Jane—she was sober. She seemed fine."
From the inside pocket of his coat, Elian produced a small leather notebook, already half-filled with scribbled observations. He flipped it open, his fingers pausing on a page.
"I'm Detective Elian Crust, NYPD," he said, as if reminding them both. "I'm investigating my fiance's death. And right now, I need more than just vague memories and half-truths. Start from the beginning. Every detail. No matter how small."
Lucian shifted in his seat, discomfort rising like steam.
"I've told you everything I remember." he said quietly. "That's all I've got."
But Elian didn't believe him. He could feel it—the weight of something unsaid hanging thick in the air. Lucian's words didn't ring true, not entirely. Something was missing.
And Elian Crust had built a career on finding what others tried to bury.
Elian rose to his feet, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.
"Appreciate the info, Dr. Williams," he said, his voice laced with skepticism.
"I'll be in touch if any other questions come up."
With that, he turned on his heel and strode out of the office, leaving Lucian in a cloud of unease. The door clicked shut behind the detective, and Lucian exhaled a long, heavy sigh. His thoughts swirled, unsettled, as he wrestled with the growing fear that he hadn't convinced Elian at all.