Chapter 9

After Harlan was dealt with, Delia didn't go to the hospital or home. She drove to our old place.

Half the bulbs in the hall were dead, everything dim and gray.

Her hand stalled on the key—

Five years. She never thought it'd still fit.

The lock clicked.

Dust coated everything—thicker than she expected. Even a small draft kicked it up.

Sunlight pushed through dirty windows, catching the floating specks.

She stopped in the doorway, barely moving, like one wrong step might shatter the air.

I hovered in the middle of the room, watching her ease inside.

Her eyes landed on the couch—the one I'd spent three months' pay on.

She'd wanted beige. Said it wouldn't show dirt.

One night she'd crashed there after a late shift, then whined it was too hard.

I laughed, said I'd swap it for a softer one once my bonus hit. But the fight came first.

"William, can't you be more understanding? Harlan just got back to the country. What's wrong with me helping him out?"

"Helping? You're making te