There was no accusation in it. Only concern.
That was worse.
“As I said before, I keep unusual hours,” I said.
He nodded. “Thank you. For all of this.”
“You’ve thanked me already.”
“I’ll probably keep doing it.”
I smiled before I could stop myself. A sudden, soft light entered his eyes in response, and the guilt I had seen before flickered just beneath it. Not enough to extinguish the moment. Enough to remind both of us that someone else still lived in the walls of this house. Someone beloved.
“Goodnight, Winnie,” he said.
“Goodnight, Conrad.”
He moved slowly into his room, bracing his hand briefly against the doorframe before he disappeared inside.
I stayed in the hallway until the house settled.
Then I walked downstairs and checked the locks, the kettle, the stove—every small domestic detail. The television still flashedin the family room, muted now. A replay of weather footage showed dark water rushing through stone streets somewhere across the ocean.
I turned it off.
The windows beyond the family room reflected only black.
Pitch-black.
Just the kind of night I belonged to.
And in that reflection, behind me, the house looked warm. Lived in. Temporary in the way human things were temporary. The kind of fragile life I’d been forced to leave before I’d ever truly had it.
This life belonged to Jade Lawrence.
The office left untouched upstairs belonged to her. The children’s first stories belonged to her. Conrad’s grief, his guilt, his tenderness, all curved around the space she had left behind.
I had no right to want any piece of it.
Still, when Billie’s bell rang, my body moved toward the sound before thought could interfere. I went to her because she had called. And because, God help me, I was already attached.
8
CONRAD
Two weeks after the household plague, the world finally started looking less waterlogged.
The lawn had gone from a swamp to something resembling actual grass again, and the trees along the drive had begun showing off with new leaves. Spring had stopped making threats and started making promises, which was convenient because CJ and Bianca’s school recital landed right in the middle of that fragile seasonal optimism.
I was late—not egregiously late, according to every clock I checked with increasing desperation—but late enough that my phone buzzed while I sat at a red light behind a landscaping truck.
The message was from Winnie.
Where are you?
I stared at it for a second longer than traffic laws recommended.
Winnie had never texted me before.
