Richard had been staring at the same paragraph in The Count of Monte Cristo for two hours. He wasn’t even sure why he picked it. Maybe because it was about revenge, and he was starting to feel like the guy who’d landed on the wrong side of it.
The guest room was quiet. Too quiet. Seafoam green walls. A candle labeled “Let It Be” had burned out an hour ago. Even the bamboo diffuser seemed to be judging him with its stale puff of peppermint oil.
The TV was still on in the living room, some nature documentary playing on mute—wolves chasing down a deer, all teeth and inevitability. Richard hadn’t eaten. Couldn’t. Something clenched in his gut like a fist.
He heard the front door open. Slowly. Carefully.
Madeline.
She shut it gently, like she didn’t want to wake the house. Or him. He sat u
