Tiny grains that had been hidden beneath furniture, beneath the life that had just been erased.
My chest hitched.
“They’re already loaded?” Archie asked, his voice tight again as he turned back to the movers.
“Yes, sir.”
“And the cats?”
“They were crated and taken to the vet first, per instructions. They’ll be delivered this evening.”
Archie nodded once, clipped. “You’re done here.”
They didn’t argue. They didn’t patronize him. They didn’t smile.
They just left.
The apartment fell silent in their wake.
Too silent.
I stared at the empty room, at the debris of myself left behind like proof I’d existed here at all. My fingers curled into the fabric of my backpack strap.
Archie turned to me fully now.
“Frankie,” he said, softer. Careful. “Hey. Look at me.”
I tried.
“I didn’t know,” I whispered. “I swear I didn’t know.”
“I know,” he said immediately. No hesitation. “I know you didn’t.”
My phone buzzed in my hand.
Bubba:
I’m here. I can stay on the line. You don’t have to do this alone.
I stared at the message, Archie’s house address still echoing in my head. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry or sit back down on the floor and stop moving entirely.
My cats were on their way to his house.
My things were on their way to his house.
Somehow—without my consent, without my knowledge—so was I. Did Jeremy know? He had to, right? Jeremy knew everything. But if he did, why wouldn’t he have said something to Archie?
The silence pressed in after the movers left, thick and heavy, like the apartment itself was holding its breath.
Archie didn’t rush me. He didn’t touch me. He just stood there, solid, like if I tipped over he’d be ready.
“It’s going to be okay,” he said quietly.
The words hit something raw. I let out a breath that shook on the way out and laughed—thin, watery, wrong. “How?”
Archie didn’t look away. Didn’t soften it with a lie.
“I don’t know,” he said.
