“No. This part I do alone.”
Inside, the house was eerily quiet. I moved through the first floor, noting small disturbances—Brandon’s laptop on the dining table, a half-empty whiskey glass beside it, muddy shoes by the door he would never have left there when he lived here.
“Brandon?” I called out, my voice echoing through the rooms that had witnessed forty years of my life.
No answer.
I climbed the stairs, my hand trailing along the banister Nicholas had carved by hand our first year in the house. At the top, I noticed our bedroom door ajar, light spilling into the hallway. I pushed it open.
Brandon stood by the window, staring out at the orchard, his back to me. The room had been ransacked: dresser drawers pulled out, closet doors open, Nicholas’s possessions scattered across the bed we’d shared for four decades.
“Looking for something?” I asked coldly.
