It should.
Every logical part of me insists it should.
But it doesn't.
I grab my phone and begin typing.
Me: How’s your morning?
I stare at the words.
That's what I came up with?After discovering a binder dedicated to me?
Apparently I've lost the ability to form complete thoughts.
I toss my phone onto the desk and lean back in my chair.
“I’m fine,” I say to absolutely no one. “I’m tired. And a rake hit me in the head.”
Then the typing bubbles appear.
My stomach tightens.
Violet: Are you okay?
Me: Yeah. Fine. I’m working.
I’m not fine.
Her response is immediate.
Violet: Of course you are.
I stare at her message.
Is that sarcasm?
It feels like she knows I’m not working. Like she knows I’m sitting here overthinking everything.
Which is ridiculous.
She can’t possibly know that.
Can she?
Then I remember the binder.
Okay.
That seems like a real possibility.
I look around the house. Everything shouldn’t feel normal, but somehow does.
I look back at Violet’s name on my phone.
The logical part of my brain has a hundred questions.
About the binder.
