Marcus’s study sat on the second floor of our stone house near the reservoir, behind a walnut door he had chosen himself. After his death, I avoided that room like it had teeth.
It still smelled like him.
Cedar aftershave. Coffee. Paper. The faint metallic scent of old fountain pens.
Landon stood behind me with Milo at his side. He looked uncomfortable in a house where one chandelier probably cost more than his truck.
Milo looked around and whispered, “This place is cleaner than a hospital.”
“It’s a compliment,” Landon said quickly.
I would have smiled if I had not been staring at the open safe.
The safe door hung out like a broken jaw.
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