Page 9
“I can’t do this.” The words slip out before I can stop them.
Jon looks at me carefully. “You don’t have to do everything today.”
“No.” I shake my head hard enough that it hurts. “I can’t do any of it.”
Jon rubs a hand over his face.
He looks older this morning. Worn down in a way I’ve never seen before, like the last twelve hours cost him a decade he didn’t have to spare.
“She wanted Christmas,” he says quietly after a minute.
Neither Knox nor I answer.
Jon looks toward the tree. “She told me last week she didn’t care about presents or dinner. She just wanted the lights on.”
My throat tightens hard enough to hurt.
“I almost unplugged it this morning,” Knox admits quietly.
My head snaps toward him immediately. “No.”
The word comes out sharp enough that both of them go still. I stare at Knox. “Don’t touch the fucking tree.”
He nods once. “I won’t.”
Silence settles over the cabin again. The coffee maker clicks off. Hospice paperwork sits on the counter where someone left it.
Evidence. That’s what it all feels like. Proof that something terrible happened here. I stare at the tree lights until they blur.
At some point, Knox moves around the kitchen, pouring coffee neither of us really drinks. Jon takes a phone call outside and comes back in looking worse than before.
My phone keeps lighting up on the table. I don't pick it up. I already know what every message says, and I can't bring myself to read any of them.
A knock sounds at the door sometime around noon. The cold rushes in when Knox opens the door. Mouse steps in carrying a crockpot that looks strangely out of place in his hands.
"Jenna sent this over," Mouse says as he steps inside, brushing snow from his shoulders. "She figured nobody's had much to eat."
Knox takes the crockpot from him and sets it on the counter. "Tell her thanks."
Mouse nods, his gaze drifting around the cabin before it lands on me. His eyes linger for a second before he looks away.
Good.
I don't want to see whatever expression is on his face.
Pity.
Concern.
Whatever version of grief people wear when they're looking at somebody whose entire world just ended.
"I’ll be right back," he says after a minute. "There’s bread out in the truck."
Knox gives a tired nod. "Appreciate it."
Mouse heads back outside and returns a minute later, carrying a paper bag. The smell hits the room almost immediately, fresh bread mixing with coffee and pine from the Christmas tree.
My stomach turns. I haven't eaten since yesterday. I don't think I could if somebody put a gun to my head.
