“The part you’re not saying.” His eyes meet mine. “Believing you could’ve saved her if you’d pushed harder.”
My chest pangs, a gnawing ache. The one that never goes away.
“You shouldn’t carry that,” he says, and I think that’s the end of it.
Then his hand moves. Carrson reaches across the table, fingers brushing briefly against the sleeve of my shirt. Barely there, yet somehow more meaningful than any of the comfort I got at her funeral. Maybe because I know it cost him.
“That’s not how it works,” he finishes, as if it’s simple, before pulling his hand away.
The absence sets in immediately, so much that I almost reach out to recapture his hand. Halfway there, I remember not to try.
Carrson picks up his fork and knife once more, cutting neatly into his pancakes. He carves a perfect rectangle. Takes another bite.
He glances up mid-chew to find me sitting there. Staring at him.
Carrson frowns and points his knife my way. “Eat,” he says, tone in between a command and a suggestion.
For once, I don’t argue.
I pick up my fork, but I don’t look away.
Chapter twenty-seven
Descend
Becky
The door clicks closed behind Carrson, and I drop the hand I’d lifted to wave good-bye.
I’m moving a second later, hair flying, feet quick, slipping on the marble as I sprint down the hallway. I’m headingtoward the cellar. There’s a door I found down there the other day, hidden behind a wine rack. It’s a narrow door, shorter than usual, like it was made for gnomes. Or trolls.
Of all the locked doors in the house, this one stands out the most. Because it’s hidden but also because of the lock. Old metal, reddish-brown, maybe bronze once but now worn and darkened, with a gaping keyhole.
For three days Carrson had gone to see the lawyers, and for three days I’ve searched. Closets. Drawers. Cabinets he probably hasn’t opened in years. Until my hands were covered in dust and my back ached from hunching over.
I found it tucked in the back of a drawer, half-hidden beneath old papers.
A key that feels right when I pick it up.
It’s as big as my hand. The same old worn metal.
Now it sits heavy in my palm, warmed by my skin, as I step up to the door.
I slide it into the lock with a loudclink.
It fits.
I wrap my fingers around it and turn, only to get resistance. Not a little, but enough that it shudders all the way up my arm. Biting my lip, I lean my hip into it and shift my weight. I push harder, forcing the key while it presses back against me.
Come on. Please.
Don’t break.
If it snaps, there’s no explaining it. No way to justify why I’m here, alone, with a broken key stuck in a door I shouldn’t even be touching.
A sliver of guilt nudges into my consciousness. The last few days have gone better than I ever would’ve expected. I mentioned to Carrson that I’d taken horseback riding lessons as a child, that it had been part of my sister’s therapy, a way to keep her connected to the world outside as her health faded.
He didn’t say much, but the next morning two horses were waiting when he led me outside after breakfast. Turns out there’s a stable behind the house.
