The door to the vacation house creaked open. I stepped in and shut it behind me.
Silence.
No laughter. No footsteps. No warmth.
Just the kind of stillness that settles into the bones.
I dropped onto the leather couch and stared ahead at nothing. The house was cold and hollow, just like the way I felt inside.
I got up and moved to the fridge, pulling it open. I reached for a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label, popped the cap, and took a long pull straight from the bottle. No glass. No ice. Just the burn.
I carried it back with me, sank onto the couch again, and pulled out my phone.
Fourteen missed calls.
Mostly from Evelyn, my wife and the rest from Myers, the attorney.
I tapped into the messages.
Evelyn:
Nathaniel, I don’t understand you anymore. You were supposed to meet with
