His hand drops to his arm, fingers finding that same spot on the inside of his elbow, scratching slowly through his jacket. His pupils are slightly off.
He definitely has to be high.
"Are you sleeping?" I ask.
"Sure," he says, in a way that means no.
He picks up the can, realizes it's almost empty, and sets it back down. His eyes drift around the room again, landing nowhere for very long, and his knee has started a small, restless bounce that I don't think he's aware of.
Then he looks at me.
"Can I ask you something?" he says.
Something tightens in my chest, but I keep my face still. "Sure."
Milo pulls in a slow breath through his nose, his palms pressing flat against the tops of his thighs and rubbing once, twice. He's working up to something. I can see the effort of it in the set of his jaw, the way his eyes drop to the coffee table before coming back up to mine like he's made a decision he can't take back.
"Cassville Care Pharmacy." His eyes don't leave mine. "You never actually told me if you were related to the owners."
Something cold moves through me the second he says it, spreading outward from my chest before I can stop it. I press my feet flat against the floor and hold his gaze. "You already asked me that,” I say, keeping my voice even. “Remember? At the shop. A few weeks ago."
Something flickers across his face. "Right." He squeezes his eyes shut for a second, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Right. I forgot."
He forgot.
The words sit in the air between us, and I study his face, the tight line of his mouth, the slight tremor in his hands where they're resting on his knees. He's not well. Whatever he's been taking, he's taking too much, and it's starting to show in ways he probably can't see himself anymore.
I want him to leave.
The thought arrives firmly, settling into my chest like a stone dropping into still water. I want him out of my house and away from my pack and back into whatever version of his life he's been living since I left the Morder.
"Milo." I keep my voice gentle. "It's been really good to see you, but I should probably?—"
"She looked like you," he says.
I go still, not sure what the hell he’s talking about.
"I only saw her face for a second." His eyes are on the coffee table, unfocused, like he's looking at something I can't see. "But I can’t stop thinking." He stops and swallows. "She had the same eyes as you."
“Who?” I ask as I look at Milo's face, trying to follow the thread of what he's saying. But he doesn’t seem to hear me.
His eyes are unfocused, his words coming out slightly disconnected from each other, and I can't tell if he's building toward something or unraveling out loud.
"She had the same eyes as you," he says again, quieter this time.
I have no idea what he's talking about.
I glance toward the kitchen, then back at Milo. He's pressing his fingers against the outside of his jacket pocket, and his knee bounces again.
"Milo." I keep my voice careful. "Who are you talking about?"
He blinks, like the question surprised him. Then helooks at the empty can. "The woman from the pharmacy," he says. "The one who owned it with her husband."
I open my mouth.
Then close it.
Is he talking about my parents?
