stairs.
“Anything that belongs to me stays.”
The next hour was strangely quiet.
No screaming.
No dramatic destruction.
Perhaps the security guards helped.
Perhaps the documents did.
Perhaps reality had finally become too large to shout over.
Adrian packed clothes.
Beatrice collected several bags.
Tiffany carried makeup cases, shoes, and the keys to a car she suddenly understood she might not be able to afford.
At the door, Adrian stopped.
“Do you hate me?”
The question surprised me.
“No.”
He looked almost disappointed.
“I wish I did.”
“What does that
