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He seems as if he’s barely controlling his temper. His tone is low and clipped, and his words are spoken through thinned lips. He’s gripping the arms of the chair as if he’s going to rip them off at any moment. I’m lying on my side in bed, atop the covers, wearing the same clothes I had on last night. Outside, birds are chirping. The sun is up. I don’t know what time I passed out, but it’s a new day. A new day in which I’m hungover and James is still dying. Filled with guilt about how I know that, I push myself up to a sitting position and look at him. “I need to tell you something.” He arches his brows. “You’re not going to ask how I got in your apartment? Or how I knew you were drunk?” I frown, trying to focus through my brain’s haze. “Did I leave the door open again?” “I saw Edmon
- Writer
