Stared at those five letters like they were going to rearrange themselves into a better answer.
Sent it before I could start over again.
His reply came almost immediately.
Now, if you can. Park where you did last time.
I stood in my kitchen with my phone in my hand while the apartment made all its normal sounds around me. Dishwasher humming. Refrigerator clicking. Heat blowing through the vent. A container of cold pasta sat open on the counter because I’d taken two bites, forgotten I was eating, then remembered at the exact moment my life decided to become a crime scene.
Now.
Okay.
Now was manageable. Now had motion.
Waiting was where I fell apart. Waiting let thoughts breed in corners. Moving gave my hands and feet a job. Shoes. Keys. Jacket. Wallet.
Keys were actually in the bowl by the door, which felt suspiciously like a trap. My wallet was not in the bowl, not on the counter, not in the jacket I wore yesterday, then somehow in the pocket of the hoodie I already had on. I patted myself down for my phone, panicked for half a second, then realized I was still holding it.
“Unbelievable,” I muttered.
I drove to Declan’s house with both hands on the wheel and my speed exactly legal, like one mile over would summon every cop in Denver. Streetlights dragged pale lines across the windshield. Brake lights blinked red ahead of me. A guy in a parka jogged across an intersection with a paper bag tucked under his arm.
Normal people doing normal things while I drove toward the aftermath of a marriage breaking open.
I parked two streets away, same place as last time. Not in front of his house. Not where a neighbor could glance out and think, Isn’t that Holloway’s truck?
Same careful bullshit.
Different damage.
Before I got out, I checked the mirrors. Left. Right. Rearview. The street was empty except for a parked sedan with frost on the windshield and a trash bin tipped halfway into the gutter. Nobody was watching.
Probably.
I hated that probably had become part of my life.
The cold hit my face when I stepped out, sharp enough to help. I shoved my hands in my jacket pockets and walked with my head down, moving too fast until I realized I was moving too fast, then forced myself to slow down. My body wanted to get there. My brain wanted to arrive already knowing what would happen. Neither one of them had ever been good at patience.
When I reached his street, I saw the driveway first.
Olivia’s car wasn’t there.
I stopped on the opposite sidewalk.
The house looked the same. Porch light on. Curtains pulled halfway over the living room windows. The narrow glow beneath the door. Nothing dramatic. No luggage visible. No slammed-open garage. No sign on the lawn announcing adultery and consequence.
But the absence of her car landed hard.
It made the whole place look hollowed out.
I crossed the street and went around to the side entrance because apparently we were still doing secrecy even with everything already on fire.
Declan opened the door before I knocked.
He looked wrecked.
Not tired. I knew tired on him. Tired was after practice, after a late flight, after three hours of video and a room full of grown men acting like toddlers in pads. This was different. His face had been stripped down. His beard was rough. His hair was messed from his hands. His eyes were bloodshot at the edges. Sweatpants, black T-shirt, bare feet. No jacket. No whistle. No coach.
