The key scraped in the lock like a fingernail dragged down my spine.
I hadn’t turned it in ten years, but the brass still knew my fingerprints. The door opened and the smell hit me first, cedar from the staircase, lemon polish, and something else I can pinpoint.
I stepped over the threshold and the brownstone swallowed me whole.
Marble floor chilled through my soles even through the thin leather of my flats. My suitcase wheels clacked too loud in the hush. Somewhere above, a clock ticked like a heartbeat I’d spent a decade trying to outrun.
I left the bag by the console and walked toward the kitchen because that’s where the light was shining bright and spilling through the French doors. My pulse was already a frantic thing, fluttering at the base of my throat, tasting metallic.
He was
