“Maybe,” I said. The word landed flat between us.
Grace didn’t argue. She didn’t reassure me into silence. She just stayed, her shoulder almost touching mine, and let the quiet do the work.
I left as the sun started to set, washing the mountains in gold and copper.
Grace walked me to the door the way she always did. But when I turned to say goodbye, I saw something in her face that stopped me. Worry, maybe. Fear, held too tightly in her jaw. Something she was trying very hard to hide behind the innkeeper smile.
“Grace.” I hesitated. “Are you okay?”
For a second, I thought she might tell me. Her mouth opened slightly, her eyes searching my face like she was weighing something she wasn’t ready to hand over.
Then Marcus appeared behind her, his hand settling on her shoulder, firm, claiming.
“Grace, I need you inside.” Marcus didn't even look at me.
Grace's face went blank. That innkeeper mask slid back into place.
“I should go,” I said.
She just nodded, that tight smile back in place, and I walked to my truck.
The drive home was quiet. The apartment was quieter than it had any right to be.
I ate dinner alone at the kitchen counter, the same counter where Sarah had stood a week ago, telling me I wasn't enough. The silence pressed in from all sides, thick and heavy, the kind that belongs to a space.
I thought about Sarah. About Grace. About the way some people leave and some people stay.
I was tired. It felt like the kind of exhaustion that sleep doesn't fix, that settles into your bones and makes everythingfeel heavy. The kind that makes you doubt you’ll ever feel light again.
Tomorrow would come whether I was ready or not.
That would have to be enough.
CHAPTER 4
Grace
I woke to an empty bed.
Marcus's side was cold. The sheets held no impression of his body, no lingering warmth. Just the smell of lavender detergent and the cool morning air seeping through the old windows.
He didn’t come to bed last night.
I lay there staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks I'd memorized since childhood. There was one shaped like a river, branching across the plaster above the window. The spider web of lines near the light fixture that Gran had always said she'd fix next summer. The water stain from the leak we'd patched three winters ago, faded now but still visible if you knew where to look.
I knew every imperfection in this ceiling. I'd spent countless nights mapping them, back when I was a girl and the house felt too quiet, back when Mom was having one of her bad spells, and Gran would let me sleep in the big bed instead.
Laughter carried up from downstairs. Emma's laugh, bright and sharp, followed by the low murmur of Marcus's voice.
I closed my eyes. Counted to ten. Then I got up.
The armor went on piece by piece. Ponytail, tight and practical. Apron, tied at the waist. The innkeeper smile that wastested in the mirror until it looked natural enough to fool anyone who wasn't paying close attention.
I moved through the morning routine on autopilot. Started the coffee. Set out the pastries I'd baked at two in the morning when sleep wouldn't come. Arranged fresh flowers in the vase by the window, the first daffodils from the garden that had finally pushed through last week.
Everything in its place. Everything held.
Mrs. Patterson came down first, the way she always did. She paused in the doorway of the dining room, studying me with those sharp eyes that missed nothing.
