"Thank you."
"Don't thank me. Just—" His voice cracks. "Just come back. When you can. She needs you."
"I know."
"And Drogo? That note. The handwriting. It wasn't right."
My chest tightens. "I know."
"I'll keep looking. Quietly."
"Be careful."
"You too."
The line goes dead.
I sit there in the silence, phone in hand. Marcus understands. He'll protect her. Watch over her. Keep her safe while I do what needs to be done here.
Thank you, brother.
30
ALENA
Eighteen months.
One year and six months since he walked out of my life and never looked back.
I stand in front of the house—my house now, the papers signed this morning—and try to feel something other than numb.
It's nice. Suburbs. Quiet street. Red brick, white trim, a garden that someone else will have to maintain because I kill plants just by looking at them. Nothing like the Kensington flat with its floor-to-ceiling windows and ghosts in every corner. Nothing designed by him.
That was the requirement. New architect. New blueprints. New everything.
The old flat had his fingerprints all over it—the exposed brick he'd insisted on, the custom shelving, the balcony where we'd shared cigarettes and secrets. I couldn't breathe there anymore. Couldn't write. Couldn't exist without seeing him in every corner.
So I sold it. Let some tech bro overpay for the privilege of living in Drogo Solberg's design work.
Fuck that flat. Fuck those memories.
This house is mine. Clean slate. Fresh start.
Except for the shadow in the corner of my vision.
I catch it from the periphery—dark shape, wrong angles, smiling.
"Fuck," I whisper.
They followed me. Of course they did. Eighteen months sober-ish, six stints in various facilities, three different therapists, two actual exorcists (don't ask), and the spirits are still here. Still watching. Still waiting.
The realtor—perky, blonde, aggressively enthusiastic—bounces up beside me with a clipboard. "So? What do you think? Perfect, right? Fresh start, new neighborhood, excellent schools if you're planning—"
"I'm not," I cut her off.
She falters. Recovers. "Of course! Just you then. Even better. Low maintenance. Quiet. Perfect for writing."
Lucy appears on my other side, grinning like she's personally responsible for saving my life. Which, to be fair, she kind of is.
