Patter

Pretty, isn't it?* That silver band was Grayson's grandmother's heirloom. Three years ago, he came home devastated,

igging through public trash cans outside his gym for six hours, my hands covered in

They hit critical mass. And then, instantly, the fire burned out,

r face. I slowly lifted my chin. I looked her dead in the eyes, my ex

obbing wife. My dead silence caught her off guard, and h

ached into the pocket of my fade

d quickly tapped the screen to disable the flash. I raise

he instinctively raised her hand to shield h

ything: her face, the burgundy silk pajamas, the massive pink diamond, the stolen sil

my pocket. My movements were crisp, effici

to my apartment," I said. My voice was enti

ush in her cheeks vanished, replaced by a star

, explain, or beg. I turned my back on her

e doorway, her voice shrill and desperate as she lost

econd. I didn't turn around. I didn't look back. I res

lf into the suffocatingly hot, stuffy cabin. I slammed th

psed forward, burying my face against the steering wheel. My shou

y broke free. They poured down my cheeks and dripped onto the c

seconds to mourn a fifteen-year lie. When the minute ticked over, I lifted my head. The te

in, and viciously scrubbed the moisture from my face. I adjusted

ypted album app, and immediately uploaded th

xt messages and tapp

m of the screen, delivered two hours ago: *B

ove you*. A harsh, mocki

ital keyboard, typing out a r

tonight. I have a

arrow, opened the scheduling tool, and set the t

ssenger seat and reached for t

neighborhood. I threw the gearshift into reverse, slammed my foot down, and backed out

st the asphalt. The car shot forward like a bullet, leaving Ath

tonight. I have a