The motel was too quiet.
Jakob’s breathing had slowed into sleep. The television buzzed with static, the curtains barely keeping out the hum of the highway beyond.
Orla sat on the bed with her legs curled beneath her, holding a cigarette she didn’t light. She hadn’t smoked in five years, but tonight, her hands itched for old habits.
Stanley came out of the bathroom shirtless, towel around his neck. Water ran down his collarbone. Orla’s eyes followed it like a drop of blood.
“You’re shaking,” he said quietly.
“I’m remembering.”
He sat across from her, leaned forward, and reached for the cigarette. “What?”
“The basement.”
He stilled.
“Back when Clara and I… when we were kids. We made a pact.”
“What kind?”
Orla’s throat closed. “We promised never to betray each other. I did.”
Stan
