ISAAC'S POV
I came home like I always did—quiet, head low, jaw tight. My car keys landed on the marble bowl by the entrance table with a soft clink, but the sound echoed in my chest like a scream. I should've gone straight to my room. Locked the door. Drowned the rest of the evening in silence and maybe a drink or two. But I didn't.
Instead, I stood in the foyer like a man who had forgotten his own home.
The house hadn't changed much on over three years.
Shortly after Imogen absconded Portland, my mother's condition had slowly returned. The psychiatrist called it grief and I watched my mother returned to that horrible state.
I caught a whiff of that same scent of lilies from the vases Vera always kept fresh. Same polished banister on the staircase leading up to rooms filled with ghosts. My shoes sounded too loud on the floor, like I was disturbing something sacred. Something already too fragile to be touched.
