The Cross Family
A mug with dried coffee residue waited on the counter like a small, accusing artifact of her old routine.
Eva’s laptop was open on the dining table. Her recorder lay beside it. Her notebook, full of scribbled names and arrows, sat untouched. She’d made herself dress for work—jeans, a sweater, hair pulled back. If she looked like herself, maybe she could become herself again.
The cursor blinked.
Eva typed two words: Cross Enterprises—
Her hands began to shake.
Not dramatically. Just enough that the letters doubled and she had to backspace before the line turned into nonsense. Her stomach tightened, breath shallow. She pressed her palms to the table and stared at the wood grain until it stoppe