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“And when I don’t bruise?”I shrug.“Well.That’s when you know someone got really creative.”

Finally, he turns.Slowly.Like he’s not sure who is sitting in front of him anymore.

And I smile.Nothing sweet about it.

“You’re not the only one with a story,” I say.“Just the only one who thinks his is special.”

He crosses the room in three steps, as though he has something to say.

He must change his mind, but there it is.That flicker again.Not shock.Not admiration.

Recognition.

He lets it pass.

Walks to the door.

Doesn’t slam it.Doesn’t lock it.

But I hear him breathing on the other side.

And I know—he’ll come back.

Not for answers.

For proof.

21

Vance

She still thinks this is a game.

Maybe not Monopoly—but something with rules.Strategy.An exit.

Something she can win.

She’s wrong.

I wait until the sunroom is quiet again.Her head tips back against the chair, lips parted, like maybe she’s asleep.Like she hasn’t been waiting for me this whole time.

No tray this time.No bowl.No story.

Just a hand on the back of the chair and the low scrape of wheels on tile as I turn her toward the hall.

She doesn’t ask where we’re going.

I take the long way.On purpose.Past the kitchen.Down the guest wing.Let her wonder.

At the end of the hall, I stop.

One hand opens the door.The other pushes her through.

The light is bright.

The room: cold, pristine.Chrome and porcelain.

One wide vanity.One toilet.One tub.