“I know what to do,” I say, cutting off James deliberately with my retort. “I’ve been here before.”

I’ve had days to think of how to approach this, but I still hesitate to get everything off my chest.

He huffs a response, sounding something like disbelief and then grabs the tumbler of whiskey from the table. The ice clinks as he takes a sip and holds it in front of him.

“Buchan’s agent doesn’t need any more press other than what they’ve arranged.”

“I want you to know,” I start to say as I stare him in the eyes, forcing him to listen to what I’m telling him. “I think it was a setup.” Maybe I’m paranoid, but I don’t give a fuck. I have to tell someone. And I’m sure as shit not going to Samantha. “It was an accident, but it just doesn’t seem right. Something’s off.”

He shrugs and says, “It was handled.” He takes a sip of his whiskey before adding, “So I don’t give a shit if it was.”

“I do.” My words come out hard and bitter, but James is already walking away from me. I know if I move an inch, if I even breathe, I’ll beat the piss out of him for leaving this all on me. And risk losing everything.

Kat

My bloodshot eyes hate me. They burn from the onslaught of cool air as I finally sit back down in my office. I’m always here. I never leave this room unless I have to.

When I do decide to perch on the sofa or go to bed, I always bring my laptop with me.

Workaholic is a word for it. I’m not sure even that does it justice. I gave up everything for this. For sitting in this damn office, making deal after deal.

It’s why I came to New York.

It’s why I spent years in the publishing industry, collecting contacts and building a brand that’s recognizable. I do it on my own and it’s always been rewarding. Up until recently, this was my dream.

While Evan stayed the same and carried on with a life that was a fun distraction, I buried myself in work. Growing farther and farther apart from my husband. Knowingly creating distance between us. I thought it was worth it and that they’d all understand.

Ignored friends … at least I didn’t have family to ignore. Other than Evan.

I rub my eyes again and try to soothe them, but the darkness is all I can see. It begs me to sleep.

I desperately need it. I can’t even read an email right, partly from how tired my eyes are and partly from my inability to focus on anything at all. I’ve reread this pending message about a dozen times and I couldn’t tell a soul what the content is to save my life. My meeting with Jacob is next week. I spent an entire hour on my own sitting mindlessly in the coffee shop before I bothered to check the time and date.

The errors are piling up and so is my anxiousness.

At least the coffee in the shop was comforting and the little biscuits delicious. But the rain was coming down in sheets, and any sense of ease was gone by the time I dragged my ass back home to an empty townhouse with soaking wet jeans slick around my ankles.

My shoulders rise and fall as I take another glance at the screen. The contrast of the black and white is too harsh and I almost shut the laptop down and give in to sleep, but my phone goes off, scaring the shit out of me.

Evan.

It’s my first thought and I hate how disappointed I am when I see it’s not him. It’s his father. My heart sinks and I pretend it doesn’t hurt.

In my contact list, it still says “Evan’s parents’ house.” It’s tied to the number for the landline at the house where he grew up. He said he had the number memorized when he was only six years old.

Marie gave the number to me the night I first saw her, so she could call me about next Sunday’s dinner, all those years ago. Every time I see the words Evan’s parents’ house, I’m reminded that only Henry remains.

It brings a number of memories I don’t welcome. Just the same as the reminder of my own parents’ sudden death in a car crash. Tragedy brought us together. It wasn’t love. It was a need for love and that’s something else entirely.

That’s something Evan and I had in common, both of us losing our loved ones so quickly. He still has his father at least, but I’ve had no one for most of my life.

The phone rings and rings as I attempt to gather my composure. We’d only been seeing each other for a few months when I got the first call from this number. I was expecting it to be Marie, but it wasn’t his mother making the call, it was Evan because his cell phone had died.

He told me he couldn’t make it to our date and the first thought I had was that he was breaking up with me, simply because of the tone of his voice. It wasn’t until he apologized that I realized it was something else.

He couldn’t hold it together on the phone. His voice shook and his sentences were short. I’ll never forget that feeling in my chest, like I knew something horrible had happened and there was nothing I could do about it.

There was something in his voice that I recognized. It’s how I sound when I’m trying to convince someone else I’m okay, but I’m not. I knew it well.

After my parents died, I got tired of having to convince people there was more to me than tragedy. People who didn’t bother to get to know me, because I was just the sad girl at the end of the block. The poor child everyone talked about.

It was why I moved to New York. Living in the small town where my family died wasn’t a healthy place for someone who just wanted to feel like there’s something else in this world other than the past.

For Evan it wasn’t a sudden car crash, it was the phrase “two weeks to live” that brought him to his weakest moment.

I insisted on seeing him and meeting him at his parents’ place and even though I thought he’d object, he didn’t. He’d never been so passive toward anything like he was that night.

Evan’s only cried twice since I’ve known him.

That night after his mother had finally gone to bed and we went back to his childhood bedroom. And nineteen days later, when she was put in the ground.

My hand itches to hold his right now. Instead I hold a ringing cell phone in an empty home.

“Henry,” I say, answering the phone as if nothing’s wrong although I’m very aware my voice sounds nearly breathless. Clearing my throat, I repeat his name. My voice is peppy and full of life, even though it’s nearly 10:00 p.m. and I feel nothing but dead inside.

I squint at the clock on the computer and wonder why he’s calling so late. “Is everything all right?” I ask, rushing out the words, my heart beating slower and a deep fear of loss settling in.

“My favorite daughter-in-law,” Henry says and his greeting makes a soft smile lift up my lips. I even feel the warmth from it.

“Your only daughter-in-law,” I correct him, picking at a bit of fuzz on the sleeve of my shirt.

“Still my favorite,” he replies and I give him the laugh that he’s after, even if it is a little short and quiet.

“What are you calling for?” I ask him and rest my elbow on the desk, chin in my hand. I absently minimize the document on my screen and clear out all my tabs, checking my email yet again as Henry talks.

“I just wanted to check on you, make sure everything’s going well.”