The landlord had repaired it.
Fresh paint.
New trim.
But Claire could still see the old break if she let her eyes soften.
Memory always shows through.
She walked into the bedroom.
Same wall.
Same corner.
No bureau coat on the hook now.
No lamp on the nightstand.
No sheets tangled from a violent wake-up.
Just a room.
Just boards and walls and quiet.
She stood there for a long moment.
Then bent and set the little evidence envelope with the splinter on the floor by the baseboard.
A private kind of burial.
A way of leaving something behind on purpose instead of having it torn from her.
Her phone buzzed.
Reyes.
She answered.
“Tell me you’re not calling because somebody kicked in another door.”
His dry laugh came through the line.
“Not tonight.”
“Then what?”
“We’ve got a new intake package.”
Claire stared at the far wall.
