Page 214 of The Wright Man

I reached the door. Straightened my spine, and rang the bell.

Time to remind him what the fuck a real man looked like.

Gavin stood on the other side, barefoot, shirtless, and smug—his whole energy giving "drunk uncle at the cookout who thinks he can still hoop." His eyes flicked over me, a weak little sneer pulling at his mouth.

"Well, well. If it ain't the big bad Marine."

I didn't say a word. Just stood there, still as stone. Waiting.

He leaned his shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossed. "I figured you'd be back. You here to help her play victim? Thought she was a big girl."

Still nothing from me. Not even a blink.

His eyes narrowed when I didn't bite. "You deaf or just slow?"

Slowly, I dropped my gaze to his bare feet. Then back up. Deliberate. Disrespectful. Measured.

He shifted.

Good.

"I'm here for her things," I said finally, voice low and flat. "All of it."

His laugh was dry and twitchy. "She already got what she wanted. I helped her pack. Left it all nice and neat out front. Don't say I never did anything for her."

That smile didn't even reach his teeth. Just bared them.

"You gon' move, or do I need to move you?" I asked.

Gavin blinked. Something about the way I said it must've made his survival instincts kick in, because he stepped back without another word. I walked in without thanking him.

The place was quiet. Too clean. Too hollow. All that soulless beige furniture he picked out to match his bland-ass personality. Looked like a staged Airbnb. Felt even colder.

Not a trace of Angelica in the air—not her perfume, her body butter, not even the faint sweetness of whatever candle she used to light in the evenings. Just him.

I headed straight to the living room.

On the far wall, three bold, abstract paintings hung in a neat row. Emerald brushstrokes over rich brown canvas, flecked with gold foil that shimmered under the recessed lighting. I remembered the photos Tina had sent of them—gifts from her travels in Morocco and Ghana. Said she'd picked them out for Angie's "grown woman wall" after they bought the place.

I'd never seen them in person before. They were more stunning up close. Textured. Loud. Like joy and fire had been scraped across the canvas by hand.

I pulled them down carefully, one by one.

Behind me, Gavin chuckled. "Never understood her taste in art. Shit always looked like vomit on a chalkboard. But hey—one man's trash, right?"

I didn't answer. Just walked the canvases towards the garage.

"Hold up," Gavin said from behind me, watching like a child trying to supervise a grown man fixing the engine. "Where you think you going?"

"Garage."

"It's closed."

"Open it."

He blinked. "Excuse me?"

I turned to face him, calm but unflinching. "I said open it."