Eight
When Grace woke, it was almost eight in the morning. She sat up in bed and found herself alone. Her heart sank.
If not for the tissue box and the strange, disembodied trash can on the floor beside her piled clothes, she would’ve thought Heron a figment of her imagination. A mere projection of her grief-ridden mind.
But the evidence was there, even if the man himself was gone.
She rose, slipped from the bed, and stepped out onto the landing at the top of her stairs. She stretched and contemplated if a shower or koffee should come first. She’d decided on the shower and had half turned toward the door when something caught her eye.
A dark mess of hair poked out from one end of her sofa.
She leaned over the railing for a better view. One of the sofa’s pillows was tucked under Heron
