“No,” she says. “He would not approve. He believes he can build a clean room inside a burning house. He is his father’s son.”
“And you?” I ask.
“I am the one who keeps the doors shut when the wind rises.”
The line is quiet. I hear her breathe once. I look at the window. Frost feathers the edges. Outside, a plow moves slow, patient as a whale. “I loved your son,” I say. The honesty surprises me. So does the way it lands.
“I believe you.” That’s all. The words are a coat, not a hug.
We sit in silence with miles between us. I can hear the fry cook in the back cursing the hash browns as if they insulted his mother. I can hear the spoon in someone’s tea. I can hear my own pulse, steadying.
“Thank you for calling.” I don’t know why I say it. It’s true anyway.
“Goodbye, Ms. Kelly. Do what a clever woman would do.”
The call ends. My hands don’t shake. My throat stings. I open the call log and delete it. I scroll to the messages thread with Declan. Photos. The soup we made at midnight. The ridiculous selfie of him in my apron that says KISS THE COOK and his mouth on mine two seconds later. I delete. It feels like slapping myself and also like cleaning a wound. I turn the phone face down. Then face up again. Then down.
I’d made the decision to run long before Moira called, but this is the final nail in the coffin.
The toast arrives. Two triangles. Dry as promised. I eat both slowly. I chew until the bread turns sweet. Lorraine—her nametag tells me—refills my coffee and pretends not to look at my face. “You need a room?” she asks. Plain. Not a trap. Not pity.
“I might.”
“Board down the street. Blue door by the florist. Ask for Mae.” She slides a napkin toward me with a number written in looping, confident script. “Tell her Lorraine sent you. She likes to know who to haunt if you don’t pay.”
I leave cash under the mug. More than the bill. “For the suffering,” I say.
Lorraine smirks. “Baby, that’s extra.”
Outside, the cold slaps my cheeks into honesty. The trash can by the door has a dent like a dimple. I hold the phone above it for a beat. I hear Declan’s laugh in my head, the low one he uses when I’m mean about fancy knives or over-sauced fish. I drop the phone. The thud is soft. Final anyway. Relief strikes hard and ugly and immediate. I breathe like I’ve been underwater and found the ladder rung.
The blue door is easy to find. Paper snowflakes droop in the florist’s window like tired ballerinas. I knock. A dog barks once on the other side and then gives up. The door opens before I knock again.
Mae is fifty-something with knuckles like she could fell a tree and a smile that knows when to stop. “You must be Lorraine’s stray,” she says. “Come in before you freeze. I don’t mop corpses.”
“I can pay,” I say. I hold up the envelope like an offering.
“I hope so. Even a stray should have manners.” She takes the envelope, weighs it like flour in a palm, nods. “Room’s up. Kitchen’s down. Dog’s name is Biscuit and he has no opinions about anything. Do you?”
“Too many,” I say.
“We won’t have a problem,” she replies, and leads me up the narrow stairs that carry a thousand footsteps and the smell of lemon cleaner.
The room is small, clean, and kind. Quilt in triangles that could be sails. Window with frost like feathers at the corners. A lamp with a pull chain that clicks in a satisfying way when I test it. “Bathroom’s down the hall,” Mae says. “Two doors past the geraniums that think they live in Spain. There’s a kettle. Respect it. If you need sheets, you ask. If you borrow a cup, wash it. If you bring trouble, leave before it makes the stairs.”
“Understood,” I say. The words fit my mouth. They settle somewhere under my ribs.
“You hungry?” she asks.
“No,” I lie.
“Good. The stew isn’t ready.” She winks, steps backward into the hall. “Shout if you need anything. Or don’t. I have ears.”
She leaves. Biscuit noses my bag, decides I am not a threat, and thuds away. I set the knife roll under the bed like a secret. Journals on the chair. The O’Connell book in the drawer. I shut it with a little more force than necessary. The glass in the frame rattles once and then quiets.
I sit on the edge of the bed. I lean forward and cover my face with my hands. The quiet is a shell. I can hear the house. Pipes. Wind. Someone’s laugh far away. I lie back without meaning to. Sleep punches me hard and sudden.
I wake to dark. The lamp’s glass bead glints. I sit up too fast. The room tips, rights itself. My stomach flips. I stand to go to the kitchen for water and the nausea hits like a wave hitting a low wall. No warning. No grace. I lunge for the sink in the corner. My hands find the cold porcelain. My forehead hits the cool lip. My body gives up the little it has with a dry, ugly sound that feels like it might unspool me.
