Liam occupied my chair as if he were born in it. The supple Italian leather, which had molded to the curve of my spine over thousands of hours of work, now cradled my murderer’s accomplice. He didn’t just sit; he sprawled, a king surveying a newly conquered territory. My territory. He swiveled slowly, a predatory grace in the movement, taking in the panoramic view of the city I had fought to hold.
My soul vibrated with a useless, silent scream. I was a prisoner in my own afterlife, tethered to these people, forced to watch the desecration of my legacy. He had already turned my photograph face down, a petty but profound act of erasure. Now he was touching my things, his fingertips gliding over the spines of my books, the cool metal of my awards, the crystal paperweight my mother had given
