Chapter 23: Her Own Bed

The porch light was on when we pulled into my driveway at one in the morning.

Bridget had sent a locksmith that afternoon, and the key he had left under the doormat was a new one, bright and square.

I stood on my own porch for a moment with it in my hand.

"Do you want me to wait in the truck?" Rhys said.

"No."

I opened the door.

The house smelled of Delaney's vanilla and old coffee, and the hall light showed a gray robe lying in a heap at the foot of the stairs.

Colby's things were gone.

A single sock lay on the living room floor, where somebody had missed it.

I picked up the robe.

I held it for a second, and then I carried it to the kitchen and dropped it in the trash can under the sink.

"Gone," I said.

"Good."

"I'll burn the rest in the spring."

I walked through the rooms with my hand on the walls.

The kitchen island, the bad stool, the fireplace.

The quilt my grandmother made, still folded on the back of the couch, where nobody had thought to take it.

I put my face in it and breathed.

When I looked up, Rhys was standing in the hall doorway with his hands in his pockets, not coming in.

"It's your house," he said. "I'll go, if you want."

"Come in," I said. "You're letting the cold in."

"I don't know where anything goes."

"The ceramic rooster goes on the island."

It was already there, turned to face the wall, and I turned it around.

He laughed, a short surprised sound.

I crossed the floor, took his face in my hands, and kissed him.

It was nothing like the other times.

It was slow, and quiet, and it went on until I could feel him shaking.

"Upstairs," I said. "Come on."

"Hallie, are you sure? In this house?"

"It's my bed," I said. "I bought it. I want it back."

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