Dad’s in the chair to my left.
I don’t remember him coming in. He exists there now, sleeves rolled, hands folded, like he’s been part of this room all along.
He’s said a few things, practical things, the kind that don’t invite conversation. But mostly he just sits, and the longer he does, the less the walls feel like they’re leaning in.
I look at the phone.
Then I press play.
There’s a pause after that. Longer than usual, long enough that I check the screen to make sure it’s still playing. When Deek finally speaks, his voice is low, flat, and stripped clean of the usual edge he carries into every room like a second weapon.
No jokes.
No sideways commentary.
No drawled insult dressed up as affection.
Just a breath, and then, “I need you to hear this, Will.”
A faint shift of sound, like he’s moved the phone from one hand to the other.
“I didn’t record it to be part of it…” Another pause. “I recorded it because you have a right to know what someone said about you when they thought no one was listening.”
His exhale is audible this time. “And because she loves you.”
Silence stretches again.
“She told her dying father she loves you.” His voice tightens, almost imperceptible. “Figured … you should hear it from her.”
The sound cuts out for a second, like one recording ending while another kicks in over the top of it.
Then Millie’s voice fills the room.
It hits me hard enough to feel physical. That punch straight to the chest that comes from hearing the right voice after too damn long without it—low and shaky around the edges—carrying a kind of exhaustion I’ve never heard from her before. The sound of somebody who’s been holding herself together by sheer forcefor way too long and finally cracked the second nobody was looking anymore.
“Two years ago,” she says, and the first note of her voice hits somewhere low in my chest like an impact. “Will Beckett walked into your house…”
I go completely still.
Not on purpose.
My body just… locks.
The room I’m now standing in loses edges. Everything narrows down to the sound of her breathing between words, the small tremor she’s trying to control and mostly succeeding at.
She talks about coffee.
About the kitchen table.
About paying attention.
And my throat tightens.
‘He pays attention when he’s with you. Really pays attention. And somehow that always made the whole room feel steadier.’
Jesus.
I drag a hand down over my mouth and taste salt without remembering when I started sweating. My pulse is too loud, too close to the surface.
