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At the far end of the hallway, there’s another room that I almost miss. I step inside.

The room doesn’t match the rest of the house. It’s not messy—not exactly—but it feels unfinished. Just a desk, a chair, and a floor lamp. Bare white walls except for one small nail near the window where something used to hang. Nothing here to impress.

There’s a door in the corner beside the window. Closet, probably.

Locked.

“Fine. Keep your secrets.”

I go back to the smaller bedroom. The bed looks absurdly inviting now. Clean white sheets, blue throw, pillows that are probably soft on your cheek. My body suddenly weighs twice what it did ten minutes ago.

I should shower. I should eat. I should text Mom.

Instead, I sit. Then I lie back. The mattress gives under me with a soft, expensive sigh.

“Oh, hell yes.”

The room settles in around me. No stained drop tiles on the ceiling.

I take stock because it feels like something a person with a plan would do.

Shelter—done.

Food—gotta eat.

Money—some, but not enough.

Legal strategy—embarrassing.

I roll my head toward the window. The ocean is visible from here if I angle myself right.

I think about the master with its better view just one thin wall away. Maybe someday it’ll feel like mine.

My eyes start to close.

I’m here. I’m lying in a bed that feels like mine.

For now, that’s the closest to a claim I’m going to get.

Chapter sixteen

One Door Closes

Paul

The sun is lower than it should be when the last liquor bottles come off the shelf.

Summer is still technically in charge, but only technically. The heat has lost its arrogance. By seven-thirty, the light already leans gold through the front windows of The Man Cave.

The shell of it, I mean.

“Jesus,” Landy says, crouched behind the bar with a roll of packing tape hanging from one wrist. “Did we ever clean back here?”

“Regularly.”

I look at the blackened strip of floor where the lower shelf used to sit.

“Occasionally.”