Instead, I stood and headed toward the kitchen, needing movement. Something normal. Something that didn’t involve grief or secrets or the fact that I’d just upended my entire life.
Kane followed a minute later, pulling on his jeans as he walked, expression settling back into that familiar controlled calm he wore outside the bedroom.
I opened cabinets, pretending I was looking for something specific.
There was nothing here but olive oil, dried pasta, and a half-empty box of crackers.
My stomach growled again.
Kane leaned a shoulder against the doorway, watching me.
“You’re not actually going to cook, are you?”
I turned slowly. “In this emotional state? Absolutely not.”
“Good.”
He stepped further into the kitchen and scanned the counter once, eyes sharp, assessing like he did everything.
And then I saw it.
The takeout container.
White cardboard. Folded top. A small red logo stamped on the side. I’d barely noticed it before, buried in the recycling bin.
But now it clicked.
Rose had ordered from there.
Recently.
I crossed the room and pulled the flattened box free.
Kane’s gaze sharpened.
“What?”
“I saw this yesterday,” I said quietly. “It’s from somewhere close. I remember because I thought about how domestic it looked. Like she’d ordered dinner and eaten it on the sofa.”
He didn’t interrupt.
“She had places she went,” I murmured. “ Routines.”
I turned the box over.
An address printed neatly on the side beneath a clean, understated logo:
Maison de Verre.
Three streets over.
Kane glanced at the address, then back at me.
“You want to go?”
“Yes.”
It felt important. Not because of the food.
