Page 88 of What You left in Me

“He’s a critic. He can’t help it.”

Janice glances down, then up. “New anklet?”

“Oh.” My heart stutters. I shift my right ankle behind my left, which is subtle as a billboard. “It’s… a fitness thing.”

“Ah,” she says, neither believing nor caring, which earns her my undying loyalty. “That looks like it’s for some military-grade step-counting.”

Laughing hysterically, I extricate myself as quickly as I can. Excusing myself, I carry coffee away as fast as I can without spilling it.

In the conservatory, Richard is propped in a chair with a blanket like a retired sea captain in a Monet. He smiles when he sees me, soft and wrinkling, and it makes my chest go warm.

“There she is,” he says. “Have you come to over-season my breakfast?”

“I’m seasoning with love,” I say. “It has a high sugar content.”

He laughs, then winces, hand going to his side. “Don’t make me laugh. Or rather, make me laugh. It hurts. That’s how I know I’m not dead.”

“Aw, that’s the spirit.”

“Spirit is overrated. Bring me the pond at dawn, then we’ll talk.”

“Noted. I’ll schedule a sunrise for your viewing pleasure.” I hand him coffee. He inhales like it’s a museum piece. “Janice says you’re busier than you pretend.”

“I am pretending to be modest. It’s new for me.”

“Dangerous.”

He sips and sighs. “Where’s your mother?”

“Haunting,” I say, then correct myself. “She’s okay.”

He nods, a shadow skittering across his expression. “She’s been… quiet.”

“I noticed. She’s probably tired from spending all those nights at the hospital.” I try for casual and land somewhere near strained. “Do you need anything?”

“Less worry on your face,” he says, surprisingly gentle. “You’ve aged a decade in a week.”

“Rude.” I gasp and touch my face.

“True.”

I set him up with his pills and sit with him while he flips through an art book and makes judgmental noises. The world should feel steady here—Richard critiquing art while sun crawls across the floor, but my brain keeps flickering back to last night.

The blindfold. His voice. The click. The… everything.

I shift in my chair and the anklet kisses my skin through denim like a secret.

Part of me wants to hide it at all costs. Another part wants to walk through the house in a sundress and dare the walls to notice. Neither is a good plan. I pour tea and practice neutrality. I say yes to toast. I actually eat the toast, which earns a thumbs-up from Janice in the doorway—a small miracle in the church of me forgetting to feed myself.

Mom drifts in mid-morning, suave and sleep-starved, looking a beautiful ghost with a perfect blowout. She places a vase of white hydrangeas on the table with a precision suggesting she could do it blindfolded. My eyes widen. Don’t think about blindfolds. Okay. Don’t think about… dammit.She kisses Richard’s forehead, smooths his blanket, and sets a folded note by the teacup.

“Supplies for the gallery arrived,” she murmurs. “I’ll have them checked this afternoon.”

“Don’t go in,” Richard says. “You’ll make lists and then try to lift things you shouldn’t.”

She manages a smile. “I’ll make lists and watch other people lift things. How’s the pain?”

“Manageable,” he says. “Ariane seasoned my breakfast.”