She hangs up.I stand in the kitchen, phone hot against my ear, listening.
From upstairs: silence.Finally.
From the basement: Luke’s footsteps, slow and steady across the concrete floor.
I need to get him out of there.Not because of what’s in the basement—there’s nothing in the basement now.But because Charles is directly above him, separated by a floor, a mattress, and whatever’s left of this morning’s sedatives.And if Charles picks the next five minutes to start moaning again, no amount of pitch decks and pivot strategies will explain that away.
I check my reflection in the microwave.I look like someone who’s been awake for three days straight trying to hold two lives together with caffeine and audacity.Which is exactly what I am.
I straighten my sweatshirt.Fix my face.Walk to the basement door.
Temporary, I told Julia.This is all temporary.
Which means I’d better make sure it is.Because if I don’t fix things with Charles—and fast—this new life I’m pitching won’t just fall apart.It’ll fall apart with witnesses.
And one of them is currently in my basement with a tape measure and a jawline I don’t have time to think about.
I open the door.
19
Luke
The door opens above me.Her footsteps on the stairs—quicker than before, like she’s running out of time for something I’m not part of.
“Sorry about that,” she says.No explanation.No details.Just the apology and the clear expectation that I won’t ask.
I don’t.
I pull out my tape measure and start marking the walls.She stands by the stairs, arms crossed, one foot on the bottom step like she’s ready to bolt.Not interested in me.Not performing for me.Not even aware of me the way women usually are when a man’s in their house, that low-frequency alertness, that constant peripheral calculation.She’s somewhere else entirely.Running numbers I’m not part of.Solving a problem I can’t see.
That should be a relief.It’s not.And the fact that it’s not is starting to irritate me in a way I can’t file under anything useful.
“Mrs.Mather tells me you used to be a radiologist,” she says.
There it is.
Except—that’s all she says.No soft voice.No sympathy face.NoI’m so sorry about what happened.She drops it the way you’d sayI hear you’re left-handed.
I wait for the rest.It doesn’t come.
“That’s right,” I say.
“Hated it?”
“Loved it.”
“Then why’d you stop?”
Anyone else, I’d shut this down.But she’s not asking for the story.She’s sorting data.
“Got tired of looking at what’s broken and not being able to fix it,” I say.
She considers that.Doesn’t argue.Doesn’t comfort.Just lets it sit between us like a card she’s decided not to play.
Everyone else in this town handles me like I’m made of glass.They lower their voices.They touch my arm.They bring casseroles I didn’t ask for and say things likeEmily would have wanted you to move on, as if they’d ever once asked Emily what she wanted.
Marin doesn’t do any of that.
