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He loved Astrid, though. She loved him. That was all that had ever mattered to me.

“I was starting to worry.” Malcolm rose from the sofa as I closed the front door behind me.

I managed not to jump—noticeably—I was no longer a fan of surprises. Also, not a fan of having my privacy invaded, but I got it. I’d lived in the Gingerbread House—the family name for the guest cottage behind the mansion my grandfather built back in 1912—since I’d been seventeen. I think both Astrid and Malcolm tended to think I was still seventeen.

“I was putting up posters for Freyja.”

Malcolm winced. “Right. Of course.”

“And then I picked up a few groceries.”

“You didn’t need to worry about that, Caz. I had Mrs. Bolt stock the pantry and fridge this afternoon.”

I said slowly, “Right. Okay.” I put the box of groceries, bottles clinking, on the counter, and noticed a pecan custard coffee cake in the glass cake dome.

A Bredahl Cookies and Cakes bestseller. The recipe was my great-grandmother’s.

“I know it’s your favorite.” Malcolm sounded awkward.

“Yes. Thanks.” I tried to remember how this type of interaction was supposed to go. “That was thoughtful.”

Fortunately, Malcolm had not forgotten. “It’s what Astrid would have done.”

Neither of us said anything. In the light of the living room lamps, Malcolm looked harrowed. Old.

Swept up in my anger and bitterness and depression, it was too easy to forget that Malcolm was also suffering. That he’d lost nearly as much as I had. I wanted to say the right thing, but what would that be? Normal civilized conversation seemed beyond me now.

Malcolm said kindly, “Anyway, I wanted to invite you up to the house for dinner tonight.”

I appreciated the gesture, but I didn’t want to have dinner with Malcolm. I didn’t want to go anywhere or talk to anyone.

“I appreciate it. But honestly, I think I’m going to take a couple of aspirin and go to bed. I’m beat.”

Malcolm gave another of those little winces. He wasn’t enjoying his new role any more than I was. “You have to eat, Casper. You look—you’re too thin. You don’t look well.”

“Well, you know, prison food.” I was kind of kidding, kind of not. Because…seriously? I was being judged on appearance?

“Don’t worry,” Malcolm said quickly. “I’m not going to pester you. I know you’ve been through a lot. You need your space. Humor me tonight and I won’t disturb you again until Christmas.” He grimaced, “It’s just…the house is so quiet without Astrid.”

Yes. The whole world was quiet without Astrid.

I closed my eyes. Opened them. Said, “Yeah, of course, Malcolm. Thank you. I could use a home-cooked dinner.”

Malcolm smiled and headed for the front door. He glanced at the box of booze in passing, but said nothing.

As the door closed behind him, I dropped down on the sofa, let my head fall back.

I— I cared for you.

Past tense.

How insane was itthatwas the most painful takeaway of my run-in with Raleigh?

Was it a surprise to me that he was already over what he’d felt?

No.

He couldn’t have felt much or he would never have done the things he did. Never have believed the things he did.