"New start, babe," she says, squeezing my arm. "Clean slate. No more ghosts."
I glance at the shadow still lingering near the garden gate.
"Sure," I lie.
• • •
Inside, the house smells like paint and possibility—too clean, too sharp, the chemical scent burning my nostrils after years of old wood and dust and whiskey-soaked furniture. My footsteps echo in the empty rooms, the sound bouncing off walls that haven't learned my rhythms yet. The light hits differently here—brighter, harsher, no shadows except the ones that followed me.
My assistant—Clara, efficient to the point of terrifying—has already moved everything in. Boxes unpacked. Books on shelves. Furniture arranged. Even the kitchen stocked. Ididn't have to lift a finger. Money does that. Buys you efficiency. Buys you distance from your own life.
The last book I wrote—Through the Veil—was drafted entirely in a psych ward. Yes, depression had hit that hard. Scribbled on hospital paper between therapy sessions and medication checks. My editor called it "raw" and "devastatingly honest." The public called it a masterpiece. Biggest seller yet. Film rights sold before it even hit shelves. Now in post-production with some A-list director who keeps sending me emails I don't read.
Turns out public breakdowns are good for book sales. Who knew?
I walk through the house. Living room. Kitchen. Stairs to the bedrooms. Everything is perfect. Everything is wrong. The silence is too loud after years of whispers. The walls too white. The air too still.
Lucy follows me into the kitchen. "You okay?"
"Fine."
"Liar."
I open the fridge. Grab a beer. Twist the cap off.
Lucy's face does that thing—worry mixed with disappointment mixed with exhaustion.
"Babe…"
"What?" I take a long drink. "I'm allowed one beer in my own house."
"You said—"
"I said sober-ish." I lean against the counter. "One beer isn't a relapse, Luce. It's a Tuesday."
She doesn't look convinced.
I sigh. Set the beer down. "I have shooting practice at four. Want to come?"
"The gun range again?"
"Three times a week. Doctor's orders." I shrug. "Well. Therapist's suggestion. Something about channeling anger productively. Turns out I'm really good at it."
Lucy raises an eyebrow. "How good?"
"Qualified for competitive shooting last month. Didn't compete. But I could."
"Jesus, Alena."
"What? It's therapeutic. And it's legal." I pause. "Also, I'm terrifying at it. Marcus says I shoot like I'm trying to kill the target's entire bloodline."
She laughs despite herself. "That's… actually kind of hot."
"I know." I pick up the beer again. "After shooting, I have an appointment with the mechanic. To look at the Mustang. Want to come to that?"
Her face softens immediately. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. She's been in the garage for eighteen months. Time to see if she's salvageable or if I'm just throwing money at a corpse."
