That was problem number one.I owned this place. I'd bought it, made plans for it, and dumped it on Griff.
At no point had I figuredI'dbe the one enjoying it. I paused just inside the door and inhaled again, slower this time, like the smell might fade with enough exposure.
It didn't.
Appearance-wise, the place hadn't improved since I'd last seen it. If anything, it looked worse, now that I wasn't dropping off Griff and walking away. I took a long look around, seeing the place with fresh eyes.
The water stains looked bigger, the kitchen cabinets looked grubbier, and the narrow bed looked saggier, like Griff's weight had finally finished it off. As for the ancient fridge, it was ticking and groaning, like it had one foot in the grave.
I gave a slow shake of my head.What a shithole.
So, why was I here?
Call that problem number two. I knew that if I spent another night stewing by myself, I'd end up drinking alone anyway, just in a nicer room.
So I'd grabbed a decent bottle of whiskey, threw on my shoes, and hoofed it over to Griff's, thinking I'd pour us a drink or two and drag him somewhere else.
But Griff wasn't here.
Call that problem number three.
If I wanted, I could add a number four and speculate that he was off somewhere with Maisie and wouldn't return at all.
This left me to do what, exactly?
Call Tessa?
Nope.
Yesterday, she'd sent me two texts, both movie jokes, obviously meant to keep things light. But I wasn't feeling light. And if anything, the jokes had only turned my mood darker.
The only upside was that Maddox had called me a few days ago, saying they'd picked up Evan Carver's trail. Apparently, he'd been tossed out of a van in front of his company's headquarters, looking worse for the wear.
Maddox had even sent me a photo of Carver standing in the parking lot, looking wrinkled, roughed-up, and royally pissed. The image was funny, but I hadn't felt like laughing.
I felt like stewing.
I hadn't replied to either of Tessa's texts.
It would've only blurred the lines she'd set for both of us, so I'd let the jokes hang like a punchline without a laugh, telling myself that silence was the better choice.
Except now, it didn't feel that way.
So here I was, taking the high road in a place so low that even the refrigerator was pissing me off. Right on cue, the thing gave a low rattle, as if to drive the point home.
Whatever.I'd spent the last four days proving to myself that restraint was still in my skill set while proving to Tessa that I could give her what she'd asked.
A little break.
That's what she'd called it, but the whole thing seemed fishy as hell. The thought had barely registered when the smell of dead fish hit me again, sharper this time, like I needed a reminder that the stench was my own fault.
But the thing with Tessa?
If somebody was at fault, it sure wasn't me.
The fridge chose that moment to let out a long, judgmental groan that made me glare in its general direction. "Oh, shut up," I muttered. "What doyouknow, anyway?"
It answered with a slow mechanical sigh that sounded a lot like disbelief. "Oh, fuck you, too," I said as I headed toward the lone table. As I set down the whiskey, the tabletop shifted like it might collapse.What the fuck?
