The sound of Beth’s heels clicking against the hardwood echoed faintly down the hall, then up the stairs. Then nothing.
Not even silence. Just absence.
Kingsley stood there for several long seconds in the stillness of the living room. His arms hung at his sides, loose and numb, the folder of truth still sitting on the table between them like a dead thing neither of them cared to bury.
He didn’t remember walking to his study; his feet carried him automatically, as though the room were the only place in the house that still felt like it belonged to him. When the door shut behind him, the quiet inside was heavier than the one outside. It pressed against his chest. It settled into his bones.
He lowered himself slowly into the chair, not like a man sitting down but like someone caving inwar
