The silence after the creak stretches thin, pulled taut like wire.
Adrian breaks it first.
“Do you remember the house?” he asks casually. “The old one. Before the renovations. Before the lies got prettier.”
I do not answer.
I keep my shoulders squared, jaw locked, eyes lifted and unreadable. I give him nothing.
“You do,” Adrian says, smiling anyway. “Of course you do. You remember the way the floorboards creaked outside our room. You always knew when she was coming.”
His fingers drum lightly against the detonator.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
“You’d tense up,” he continues. “Like a soldier bracing for impact. Me? I never learned that trick. I just lay there and waited. Counting the seconds. Wondering if this time would be worse.”
“Stop,” I say.
The word comes out rougher than I intend.
Adrian
