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“He died?” I gasp.
“You didn’t hear it from me.”
My heart stops.
No.
“I’m on my way.” I hang up, grab my keys, and run for the door.
I walk down the corridor with a deep sense of dread. I have no idea what I’m about to walk into.
Only that Henley hasn’t called to tell me and his phone is now turned off.
Henley being Henley, I’m assuming he wants to deal with this alone.
Tough titties. He’s got me now.
I get to the door and stand outside as I peer in through the glass window.
Henley is methodically taking clothes out of the closet, folding them, and putting them into a box.
He’s emotionless, collected.
His silhouette blurs as the lump in my throat closes over.
I knock softly, and he glances up and sees me. Before he stops himself, I see a fleeting flash of anger across his face. “Come in,” he calls in a clipped tone. He continues to fold the clothes without looking up.
He’s on autopilot. Cleaning is his way of controlling the situation.
I brace myself; I don’t even know if I’ve done the right thing by coming. I just knew I didn’t want him to be alone while doing this. I open the door, walk in, and close it behind me. “Hi,” I say softly.
“You’ve heard the news, no doubt,” he snaps as he angrily flicks a pair of pants.
I stay silent as I watch him.
“You can go home. I’m fine.” He flicks the pants again as if to get something off them.
My heart breaks.
“It’s for the best, anyway.” He keeps folding the clothes. “He had no quality of life for a long time.”
I go to sit on the bed.
“Don’t sit there,” he barks.
I quickly stand back up.
“I want to . . .” He opens and closes his hands by his sides, highly agitated. “I need to change the linens.”
He’s skating along the edge of sanity.
I stand still, unsure what to do. “What happened?” I whisper.
“He’s dead. But you already know that.” He flicks the pants again.
“How did he die?” I ask a little stronger.
“He had an aneurysm.”
