I was at the entrance of the sitting room, my e-reader tucked into my chest, when Holt’s voice carried from his father’s study—low, controlled.
“I know,” he said. There was a pause. Someone else spoke—Rex more than likely—but the words were too muffled to understand from the distance and creaked study door. Holt again. “I said I know. I’ve postponed long enough.”
Something in his tone shifted, it wasn’t quite frustration or resolve. Exasperation seemed to fit.
I stopped walking. Not because I needed to hear more, but because I felt something change in my chest, like furniture being moved in the dark. You didn’t see it happen. You just know the room won’t feel the same once the lights come back on.
I didn’t stay or listen to any more details than that. I didn’t need them. Instead, I tur
