Eve didn’t realise how much a suitcase could change a house until Camila’s was open on the guest room bed.
It sat there like a warning, zipped compartments, folded clothes, a careful little pile of toiletries lined up on the dresser as if someone was trying to pack warmth into a box and pretend it would travel well.
Camila moved around the room with soft efficiency, folding a blouse, smoothing a crease, placing it down as if order could protect her from the ugliness that always found Eve eventually.
Mitre stood near the door, arms crossed, watching the hallway like the house might be listening.
Eve hovered between them, useless hands, a tightness in her chest she couldn’t swallow down.
She told herself it was normal.
People left.
People returned.
Westwood wasn’t far.
Camila and Mi
