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The lights were off. The air felt stale, like it hadn’t been disturbed in days. I dropped my keys on the counter and stood there, listening, half-expecting to hear Chloe humming from the bedroom or banging around in the kitchen.

Nothing.

Her afghan was still draped over the back of the sofa—the one she’d bought at that antique store she dragged me into last year. I’d complained the whole time. Said it smelled like dust and old people.

She’d just laughed and said it had character.

I reached out and touched it without thinking. The yarn was soft. Familiar.

The pictures were still on the wall. Black frames. Matte-white borders. Chloe had insisted it was cleaner that way.

I hadn’t cared about the frames. I’d just liked seeing her face when I came home.

Now it felt like every photo was watching me fail in real time.

“Enough of this shit,” I muttered.

I headed for the laundry room, dug out clean workout clothes, and changed fast. No thinking. Just motion.

Cappy’s.

I needed sweat. Pain. Something solid.

Hell, maybe I needed someone to hit me back.

Cappy’s Gym hadn’t changed in thirty years.

The paint was a tired gray, scuffed and peeling in places where fists and shoulders had hit it too many times to count. The mirrors were old—warped just enough to distort reflections if you looked too hard. The kind of place where no one checked themselves out for selfies.

The air smelled like iron, leather, and old sweat. Chalk dust lingered in the corners.

Men nodded when I walked in. Some I knew. Some I didn’t. Different ages. Same look in their eyes. Everyone here was carrying some kind of burden.

Cappy spotted me immediately.

He ambled over, towel slung over his shoulder, thick arms crossed over his chest. “Rough day?”

“Rough year.”

He studied me for a second. “You wanna work it off or work it out?”

“Both.”

He grunted. “Warm up. Might be someone in your weight class coming in later who wouldn’t mind a challenge.”

That did it for me. I felt a small grin creep across my face and headed toward the heavy bag. At first I didn’t bother with any kind of hand protection, reveling in my fists slamming into the leather, the thuds giving me pleasure. Each hit was a thought I hadn’t said out loud.

“Whoa. Whoa. Whoa.” I stopped at Cappy’s cranky voice. “You know better than that, Post. Wrap up.” He tossed me a roll of 180-inch cotton wraps, already sweat-stained from a hundred other bad days.

“Bag’s not a goddamn therapist,” he grumbled. “Grab your gloves after you’re done with the wraps.”

The man stomped away, and I did as I was told.

Each second I wasn’t hitting something felt like an eternity. I needed to hit, the way Chloe’s words had hit me. The way Michael’s had.

I wrapped my hands, slid into the worn gloves, and went back to it.

This time, I pretended it was Michael’s face as he’d spewed out words I damn well knew were true. Thud. Thud. Thud. Then it turned into my face. All the stupid stunts I’d pulled that almost got Michael injured. Not killed—at least I hadn’t been that far gone.