“No.” The word comes out sharper than intended.
She raises an eyebrow. “No?”
“She’s… fine. We have a system.”
“Uh-huh.” She settles on my couch uninvited, making herself at home like she owns the place. “How’s work?”
I lean back against the wall, arms crossed. “Fantastic.”
“That why you’re home at two o’clock on a Tuesday?” Her tone is too knowing, too sharp.
“Early day.” I avoid her eyes, focusing on Muffin instead.
“And yesterday? Also an early day?”
I glare at her. “Are you stalking me?”
“I have a Ring camera. And too much time.” She studies me with those sharp eyes that miss nothing. “You look terrible, by the way.”
“Thanks.”
“Why haven’t you shaved? And when’s the last time you ate actual food?”
“I eat.”
“Scotch isn’t food.”
“It’s made from grain.”
“Dean.” Her tone carries that warning I’ve heard a thousand times.
“What do you want, Nadine?”
She’s quiet for a moment. That’s never good. The silence stretches between us like a taut wire.
“How long are you planning to mope around like this?” she finally asks.
My chest does something stupid and painful. “I’m not moping.”
“You’re sitting on the floor with my dog discussing bobby pins.” She gestures at our pathetic tableau.
“That was a private conversation.” I scratch behind Muffin’s ears, defensive.
“Dean.” Her voice softens, which is somehow worse than her judgment. “She really got to you, didn’t she?”
I don’t answer because what’s the point? We both know the truth. The silence hangs heavy, suffocating.
“She’s in Italy,” I blurt out, the words escaping before I can stop them.
“How do you know?”
“Because that’s where she said she was going.” My jaw tightens.
“But you haven’t actually confirmed—”
“Nadine.” It’s a warning.
“I’m just saying. People change plans.” She shrugs, too casual.
