Chapter Fifty-One
The front door creaked open, carrying the stale weight of Owen’s return into the too-quiet house. Keeley’s voice floated from the living room — bright, chirping — a cartoon bird desperately trying to sing over a funeral dirge. “…and when he proposed,” she was saying, practically vibrating with enthusiasm, “he put the ring in a bottle of Dr. Pepper, because I don’t drink champagne, and I almost choked on it!” Chloe sat curled into the farthest corner of the couch, a threadbare blanket pulled around her like armor. She gave a small, automatic laugh — the kind you learned to fake when the real thing was locked up behind grief. Owen kicked his boots off with a grunt, offered a half-assed, “Hey,” toward the room, and made a beeline for the garage without waiting for a response. Keeley bli
- Writer
