Page 13 of The Night Firm

I don't know what to say in response to that.

"And we did make it clear that this job was live-in and involved travel. We go where our clients need us."

"That's a highly unusual way for a law firm to do business," I say, which is honestly the biggest understatement in the history of understatements.

"We are a highly unusual firm, Miss Oliver, as I'm sure you've noticed. But I am glad you called. The movers will be at your house in two hours. They should have everything done by noon."

That seems unlikely, but I don't say as much. After all, anything is possible according to this guy.

We end the call, and I run back to my apartment and shower before the movers arrive.

If they really are on their way, I need to hurry.

I pause in front of my brother's room, my hand resting on the cool, metal doorknob. I haven't entered his room since the day he died. I know that sounds foolish, but it's like Schrödinger's cat. There's a box with a cat in it, and the cat has an equal chance of being alive or dead. But once you open the box, it's over, the truth staring at you. As long as I keep the door closed, I can pretend my brother yet lives. At least in my own mind. Once I open the door and face the emptiness, it'll be over.

Still.

It's time.

I twist the knob and close my eyes, then push the door open.

His scent—cinnamon and honey—hits me first, and it shocks me so much I crumple to my knees with a whimper. It's as if he was just here. How is that possible?

I open my eyes and see that the room is empty, as expected. It looks exactly as it did when he was alive, minus the hospital bed we rented for him. Now, in lieu of a bed, there are deep grooves in the carpets where the wheels had pressed in. But everything else is untouched. The bottles of medication on the side table. The open book lying face down, holding his page as if he might come back to it at any moment. His favorite socks folded just so next to his shoes.

A breeze catches the curtains of his window, blowing through the room gently, carrying more of his scent to me. I could have sworn the window had been locked. It always was.

Adam and I fought about it constantly. He needed fresh air, but he refused to let me leave the windows open. "I don't want to stink up the rest of the world with the scent of my death," he’d said.

And so his scent grew stronger in our home, turning from the beloved and comforting and familiar to a mutated version of itself, similar enough to inspire a fresh wave of grief, but more rancid and laced with rot. A reminder of what was to come.

I suck in my breath and cross the room in ten steps, stopping in front of the window. When I touch it, I feel the pull of a flash, but it fades before I can follow the thread. The window slams shut quite suddenly, and without my aid, or the aid of anyone as far as I can see.

It must have been the wind.

I turn towards the bedroom, to face what remains of my brother. There are some things I cannot let someone else pack, or even touch. Not until I am done.

And so I begin one item at a time, savoring the memory each of his belongings brings up in me, even as it slices a fresh wound in my already eviscerated heart.

A sweet torture.

In the end, I only keep one thing.

His ring.

He always wore it. To the very end.

I gave it to him the day we both graduated college.

I slip it onto my middle finger and then leave his bedroom for the last time.

* * *

I don't knowhow it happened, but Derek wasn't wrong. The movers have everything cleared out by noon. I am left in an empty apartment, save for my personal items. I've decided not to store anything, and to take only what I truly need and a few keepsakes.

A fresh start, as it were.

Letting them into my brother's room was the hardest part, but I know it's time to move on. He would want me to if nothing else.