I didn’t speak.
I didn’t even blink.
I looked at her like a stranger.
Because that’s what she was now.
She wasn’t my past.
She wasn’t my lover.
She wasn’t anything.
Not anymore.
But she wasn’t done.
Camilla never knew when to stop. Not when she was sober, and especially not when she was coked up and drowning in her own delusions.
She stood there in the middle of my office, swaying slightly, her eyes glassy, her cheeks flushed, her lips twitching like she couldn’t decide whether to scream or cry or throw herself on the floor and beg.
And then she did it again.
She reached into that same coat pocket, pulled out another small hit of powder, and snorted it like oxygen. She shook her head like she was trying to knock sense into herself, but it only made her voice louder, sloppier,
