I stare at "Death Certificate," blood dripping from my knuckles to bloom like a demon flower on the page.
So she did burn the manor deed I gave her, sell that flute she played for a decade—every treasure I gave her now proof of her resolve to flee.
"Susan Charles' family, those healers..."
The file crumples in my fist, a vein throbbing at my temple.
The assistant retreats softly, as if treading on ashes.
Snow piles higher in the parking lot, tire tracks crunching ominously.
At the cemetery, sunflowers freeze before the tombstone—her favorite, she said they looked like little suns.
"Baby, are you here?"
Wind rattles the cemetery bells, my voice shaking unrecognizably.
The groundskeeper says she visited once, stayed a day and night, left money for daily flowers.
My palm meets icy s
