I remembered the day they bought this bed. Ryan had texted me a picture of it, joking about the thread count.King size, Benny. I’m living like a monarch.
I backed out of the room, pulling the door until it was just a sliver of darkness.
The silence in the hallway was oppressive, like the vacuum left after an explosion.
In the kitchen, the scene was a still life of disaster: the open whiskey bottle, the two mugs, the puddle of amber on the granite where she’d spilled. And Ryan’s phone, sitting there like a loaded gun.
I needed to leave, to get out of this house before the walls started talking.
But I couldn't leave the mess. Olivia would wake up in the morning, and the first thing she’d see would be the whiskey and the dust I’d tracked in. She didn’t need to wake up to this.
I walked to the sink and turned on the tap. The water ran hot, steaming in the cold air.
I rinsed the mugs, my hands moving automatically. The hot water stung my split knuckles, scrubbing away the white drywall dust until the water swirling down the drain turned milky. I washed the mugs until they squeaked, then dried them and put them away in the cabinet. I wiped the spilled whiskey off the counter, then finished cleaning the Pyrex sitting by the sink.
I wasn’t doing much, I knew that, but what else could I do?
I paused at the thermostat in the hall. It read sixty-two degrees. I cranked it up to seventy-two, and the furnace kicked on in the basement with a low, reassuring rumble, blowing warm air into the vents.
There was a notepad on the fridge. It was magnetic, advertising a local plumber.Steve’s Drain Cleaning.It was covered in Ryan’s handwriting.
Milk. Eggs. Call Mom.
I stared at the scrawl. It looked so normal. So alive.
Without thinking, I ripped the page off, crumpled it, and shoved it in my pocket. I couldn't leave a note on top of Ryan's handwriting.
I found a clean sheet and uncapped a Sharpie.
Liv,
Didn't want to wake you. Heat is on. Doors are locked.
Call me when you're up. Doesn't matter what time.
— Ben
I left the note on the counter, weighing it down with the whiskey bottle so the draft wouldn't take it.
Before leaving, I took one last look toward the hallway and thought about the last time I’d seen her happy. Really happy. It was a barbecue last April. Ryan was manning the grill, telling some exaggerated story, and Olivia was laughing, her head thrown back, a bottle of beer in her hand. I remembered watching her from across the yard and thinking,Ryan, you lucky bastard.
I hadn't been jealous. I had just been... glad. Glad that the good guys won.
I opened the front door and stepped out into the night.
The winter air hit me like a physical blow, freezing the sweat on the back of my neck. I pulled the door shut, hearing the latch click, but I didn't walk away yet.
I crouched down by the heavy ceramic planter next to the frame. It was filled with dead winter ivy, the soil frozen solid. Idug my fingers into the dirt near the rim, feeling for the small plastic rock that didn't belong.
Ryan had showed me the spot the day they moved in.In case of emergencies,he’d said.Or in case I lock myself out getting the paper.
My fingers were clumsy with cold as I popped the plastic bottom off and shook the silver key into my palm.
I stood up and slid the key into the deadbolt. It turned with a smooth, heavy mechanical resistance.
Thunk.
Locked. Safe.
