Still, I clung to the excuse like a lifeline.
Because the truth?
The truth was that Kathleen had slipped under my skin like a drug, and I hadn’t figured out how to function without my next fix.
She left the Pack House a little after eight. I watched from the second-floor landing window, half-hidden behind the curtain like some unhinged lunatic. She didn’t look up. Didn’t glance around. Just walked.
One hand holding a paper coffee cup, the other tearing bites off a cinnamon roll. Her bag was slung across her chest. Hair twisted into a low knot, messy like she didn’t care—or maybe cared too much and was trying to seem like she didn’t.
The morning light hit her like it was in love.
Soft golden beams caught in the strands of her hair, lit up her cheeks, wrapped around her like a halo. Sh
