My thoughts drift back to the pub. To Giovanni’s calm voice, the way he listens like he’s filing every word away. I try not to linger on the way his hand felt when he shook on our deal, or how his eyes soften for half a second before he remembers himself.
I fail.
The thirst sneaks up on me anyway. It’s stupid and inconvenient and entirely unwelcome, but there it is. The competence. The authority. The way he doesn’t posture or brag or try to impress me. The way he never once talked down to me, even when he absolutely could have.
I shake my head at myself.
This is how people get hurt, Amber. This is how people get lost.
Still, the fact that he offered to help with Coral matters. I don’t let myself imagine outcomes. I don’t let myself picture miracles. But knowing someone is willing to look, to really look, not just nod sympathetically and move on, does something to me.
Maybe I misjudged him.
Or maybe he’s exactly what I thought he was, and I’m just tired and grasping at straws.
Either way, until I see Rose alive and well with my own eyes, I’m not quitting. I can’t afford to. Not again. I can’t lose another person I love.
The building looms ahead of me, concrete and tired, graffiti crawling up the side like it’s trying to escape. I fumble with my keys, irritation flaring when I drop them, then curse under my breath and scoop them up.
The door opens too easily.
That’s the first wrong thing.
The second hits me all at once.
The smell.
Not rot. Not smoke. Just… wrong. Like dust kicked up where it shouldn’t be, mixed with something chemical and sharp. My pulse spikes.
“Hello?” I call, hating how small my voice sounds.
No answer.
I step inside.
The living room looks like a bomb went off.
The couch is overturned, cushions slashed and spilling stuffing like exposed organs. The coffee table is cracked clean through. A lamp lies shattered on the floor, glass crunching under my shoe when I move.
“Oh my God,” I whisper.
I don’t stop to think. I don’t call the police. I don’t back out the door like a sane person would.
I run forward.
Down the hall. Past the bathroom, its mirror shattered. Past my bedroom, drawers pulled out and dumped onto the floor. I don’t slow until I reach the end.
Coral’s room.
The door hangs crooked on its hinges.
I push it open and feel something inside me rip.
The bed is destroyed, mattress sliced open. The desk is splintered, books torn apart, pages ripped and scattered like confetti. The box where I kept her things—bracelets, photos, old ticket stubs—is smashed, contents gone or shredded beyond recognition.
Years of memories.
Gone.
