“I used to think I didn’t,” I admit.
“And now?”
“Now I’m not so sure.” I meet her eyes. “Maybe permanent doesn’t have to be boring. Maybe it’s just about finding the right person to be permanent with.”
She’s quiet for a long moment. Then she leans against my shoulder, and we sit there watching the snow until the cold becomes too much.
The ride back is slower. More relaxed. She’s comfortable behind me now, not holding on quite so tight.
When we reach the garage, she’s smiling. “Thank you for that,” she says. “I needed it.”
“Anytime.” I help her out of her gear.
I watch her walk back toward the house, and that tightness in my chest returns with a vengeance.
Back in my room, I head straight for the hidden cabinet. My hands shake slightly as I open the false panel and pull out the prescription bottle. Two pills. No, three. The tightness is worse than usual.
I swallow them dry and sit on the edge of my bed, waiting for the medication to kick in.
The pain doesn’t ease. If anything, it intensifies.
Sharp now. Radiating from my chest down my left arm.
Not good.
I lie back and focus on breathing. Slow. Even.
In through my nose, out through my mouth.
The episode passes after a few minutes, but it leaves me shaky and cold with sweat.
The smart move would be telling the estate doctor I’ve been hiding this condition for months, but doing that means admitting I’m weak, that I can’t handle the work Dad needs me to do, that I’m not as invincible as everyone thinks I am.
I’ll be fine. The medication will handle it. I just need to be more careful about taking it on schedule.
I stand and hide the bottle again, making sure the panel is secure.
Nobody needs to know.
15
DONOVAN
It’sthe small things I notice first.
Her toothbrush in Dad’s bathroom, electric blue next to our plain white ones. A stack of books on the library side table that weren’t there last week—contemporary fiction, not our usual business reads. The coffee mug she claims every morning, cream ceramic with a chip on the handle that she runs her thumb over while she drinks.
She’s nesting. Making herself at home in our space without even realizing she’s doing it.
Five days since that first night in Dad’s bedroom, and Samantha Allen has woven herself into the fabric of our daily lives with surprising ease.
I watch her at breakfast, laughing at something Kai says. The nervous energy from that first week has melted.
She belongs here.
The thought should concern me more than it does.
I still don’t know what her endgame is. Still catch her staring into space with that conflicted expression. Still see her hide her phone when any of us walk into a room.
