She’s not wrong.
I lean forward, elbows on my desk. “Well, consider me invested. What else don’t I know? Dramatic second life I’m not privy to?”
Irene sets her mug down. “Plenty. But I’m not in the habit of giving away all my secrets before lunch.”
“Seriously,” I press, quieter this time. “What do you do when you’re not here?”
She folds her hands in her lap. “I read. Garden. Spend time with my sister when she’s in town. Quiet things.”
“That’s…nice.”
She studies me. “You sound surprised.”
“I guess I never thought about it.”
“You never think about it,” she replies gently. “You like things quiet. Controlled. But life’s in the interruptions, Hayden. Not the silence.”
Her words catch, and I don’t deflect this time. I’ve built my life around silence, mistaking it for safety. Interruptions used to mean mistakes. Today, they sound like possibilities. Irene picks her mug back up. “Sometimes, it takes a loud inconvenience to remind you you’re alive.”
Levi’s smile flashes in my mind. His laugh. My shadows pressed against him like they knew the truth before I did.
“I suppose,” I admit.
“Oh, hush,” she says, not looking up. “Undone looks better on you than you think.”
“You’re intolerable.”
She meets my gaze, steady and wry. “And yet, you keep me employed.”
• • •
After my tentativeattempt at human connection with Irene, and the unnecessary dissection of my personal life, I retreat to the sanctuary of my office, seeking solace in logistics. Death certificates. Casket orders. Scheduling forms that require little to no emotional investment. This familiar rhythm is normally calming. Stamp. Sign. Sort. Breathe.
But my thoughts drift.
To Levi’s voice. His skin. How easily I’ve let myself want.
I’m still riding the high of that realization, resisting the urge to text him something embarrassingly human, when Irene’s voice floats through the hallway, low and respectful. “Mrs. Caldwell. I’ll let Mr. Harlow know you’re here.”
I sit up straighter.
Marjorie Caldwell.
Everyone in Stonevale knows the name. Her husband, Edmond, practically had life tenure on the town council.
A soft knock. Irene appears in the doorway. “Marjorie Caldwell. She’s here to make arrangements.”
I nod, already standing. “Thank you.”
She’s waiting in the hall, immaculate like always. Black wool coat buttoned neatly. Gloves folded in one hand, silver hair pulled into a strict twist, and tired, glassy eyes. Grief has a posture. Hers is rigid.
“Mrs. Caldwell,” I say, offering my hand. “I’m so very sorry for your loss.”
Her grip is firmer than I expect. She nods. “Thank you, Mr. Harlow.”
I lead her into the consultation room. Neutral walls, soft lighting, chairs designed for comfort that they never quite deliver. I take the seat opposite her, but don’t speak right away. I’ve learned better than to rush this part.
Marjorie inhales, then holds it.
