I didn't unpack in the servants' room. I left the suitcase closed at the foot of the narrow bed and washed the camp dust off my hands. Then I took the side door out of the house and walked into town with my phone in my pocket and my face set like stone.
The café I chose sits on a quiet street where the awnings are faded and no one asks questions. The bell on the door gave a small, tired ring when I went in. The air smelled like old beans and sugar. A man sat in the back corner with his chair tilted and his arms folded. He looked up once and then looked down again like he hadn't been waiting for me at all.
Kevin.
We grew up in the same house but never in the same room. He was the boy who scowled at rules and climbed out windows. I was the girl who learned which rules let you move without
