A slamming door told me that Roman was awake, irritable, and gone. Sitting up at the dining table, I cracked my neck, noting that a laptop did not make the best pillow.
My search last night had gone from sad to downright depressing. I clicked through each tab closing them, following up with a search history swipe. Roman didn't need to know that I'd googled him, googled Tom, googled pretty much every damn person I knew here.
Except myself.
I couldn't dredge that all up again.
So instead, I made myself at home. Rifling through Roman's house overturning and sorting through every bit of clutter. The pictures of him growing up, him in a football jersey, helmet tucked under his arm, him swearing in as a police officer looking ten years younger. I flicked a nail at the glass frame, traitor.
