I put the key back in its plastic shell and buried it back in the dirt, smoothing the frozen ivy over the top so no one would know I’d been there.
My boots crunched the frozen gravel as I made my way back to the truck. I climbed into the cab and sat there for a minute, staring at the dark windows of the house.
I thought about the man I’d buried days ago.
I thought about the diner, and the way his hand had shaken when he picked up his coffee. God, the way he looked at me, begging for absolution I wouldn't give him.
Figure it out, Ryan. Fix it.
I had pushed him. I had told him to end it.
And he had listened.
I started the engine, the truck rumbling to life beneath me, vibrating through the seat. I put it in reverse and backed out of the driveway, leaving Olivia alone in the warm, locked house with her ghosts.
But as I turned onto the main road, checking my rearview mirror one last time, I knew this wasn't over. I had cleaned the kitchen, but the mess was just beginning.
Chapter 10
Olivia
Iwoke up in my bed.
That was the first wrong thing. I hadn't slept in this bed since the night before the funeral. I'd been sleeping on the couch, or on the floor, or not sleeping at all. But here I was, tucked under the comforter, still wearing yesterday's jeans.
The second wrong thing was the light. It was aggressive, slicing through the blinds.
I forced my eyes open and immediately regretted it. My head felt like it had been packed with wet sand. My mouth tasted like copper and stale whiskey.
I pushed myself up, waiting for the room to stop tilting.
How did I get here?
The memories flickered in—the cold kitchen, the bottle on the counter, Ben’s face, the moment the wordmaybeshattered the last of my resolve. Then, black.
Ben must have carried me.
The realization made my stomach twist, sharper than the nausea. I had fallen apart so completely that he’d had to scoop me up off the floor and put me to bed like a drunk child. I touched the spot on the pillow next to me. It was cold and empty.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed. I hadn't drunk that much—two mugs, maybe three—but this was whiskey we were talking about, and I hadn't eaten a real meal in a week. My body was running on fumes, and the whiskey had just burned off the last of the vapor.
I stood up, gripping the nightstand until the vertigo passed. The house was warm. The furnace was humming, a steady, rhythmic thrum that hadn't been there yesterday.
Ben.
I kept moving. The staircase felt steeper than usual, my bare feet silent on the hardwood.
The kitchen was exactly as I'd left it. Except it wasn't.
The mugs were washed and drying in the rack. The whiskey bottle was capped and pushed back against the backsplash. The casserole dishes I’d left rotting in the sink were gone.
And there was a note on the counter, weighted down by the bottle.
Liv,
Didn't want to wake you. Heat is on. Doors are locked.
Call me when you're up. Doesn't matter what time.
