Head Nurse Marianne stood by the window, pulling back a slat of the blinds to peek outside.
I didn't need to walk over to know who she meant. That black Maybach had been parked outside the nursing home for three solid hours. Through the tinted windows, I couldn't see a thing, but I could feel that gaze—a tangible weight, piercing through the glass and pressing into my spine.
"Harper, who the hell did you piss off?" Marianne turned to look at me, her brow furrowed tight. "How many days has this been? Should we call the cops?"
"No." I kept my head down, organizing the medicine cabinet. "He won't hurt anyone."
Or more accurately, calling the cops wouldn't help.
Ever since that reunion outside Julian's place, Kirill had become a shadow I couldn't shake, popping up constantly in my life. At first, I thought it was a coincidence—that tall silhouette in the canned goods aisle at the supermarket, those gray-blue eyes meeting mine at the gasstation convenience store, the flash of a black coat around the corner from my apartment building.
He was following me.
No, it wasn't even following. He appeared right there in plain sight, as if declaring his presence, as if reminding me—he wasn't going to let me go.
"Harper?" Marianne's voice pulled me back. "You look awful. Why don't you clock out early today?"
"I'm fine." I forced a smile. "Mrs. Brown in 206 needs her dressing changed. I promised her."
Marianne looked at me, started to say something, then just sighed and walked away.
I grabbed the tray and headed down the corridor toward 206. Passing the activity room, a few residents sat clustered around the TV watching a soap opera. One white-haired lady spotted me and waved enthusiastically. "Harper! Come sit!"
"In a minute, Mrs. Wilson," I called back with a smile. "Let me change Mrs. Brown's dressing first."
Mrs. Wilson pouted. "That old bat. Always playing sick just to hog you."
"Mrs. Wilson!" I pretended to scowl.
She cackled, wrinkles blooming across her face like a withered flower. These lonely old people, forgotten here by their children—their only joy was chatting with the staff. How could I bear to leave them?
I pushed open the door to 206. Mrs. Brown sat propped against the headboard, looking at a yellowed photo album. When she saw me, she quickly shoved it under her pillow like a child caught doing something wrong.
"Old photos, Mrs. Brown?" I asked while prepping the supplies.
She was quiet for a moment, then spoke softly. "My husband. He's been gone twenty years."
My hands paused. Twenty years—longer than I'd been alive.
"Do you miss him?" I asked.
"Every day." She gazed out the window, her expression softening,turning distant. "You know, when we first married, he was broke as hell. My mother said that man will make you suffer. But I didn't listen. I thought, as long as I was with him, any amount of suffering would be worth it."
I peeled back the gauze, keeping my movements gentle. The wound was healing, pink new skin forming at the edges.
"And then?" I asked.
"Then?" She smiled. "Then I did suffer. A lot. But I never regretted it. Not once."
I didn't know what to say. In my personal dictionary, regret took up too many pages. Regret for loving the wrong man, for believing in an impossible relationship, for cutting open my heart and handing it to someone who would crush it.
When my shift ended, Julian's car was already waiting outside the nursing home.
He stepped out of the driver's seat, sunlight gilding his light brown hair with a warm glow. Like always, he wore an expensive wool coat, dressed like he was about to appear in a fashion magazine.
"You're early today," I said, surprised.
Julian didn't answer. Instead, he looked across the street. I followed his gaze. That black Maybach was still there.
