Gezza snatched his bag, the strap biting into his shoulder like a leash he was done wearing. He swung it up, turned for the door. The floor didn't creak this time; it sighed, like the house itself was tired of him.
Marie's eyes widened, candlelight catching the surprise in them. "So you're preparing to die."
"I'll find a way myself." He cut her off, voice low, edged with steel. Not stomping; just cold, deliberate steps. His heart jackhammered against his ribs, a trapped bird, but his face stayed blank. Unreadable.
Hand on the knob. Metal cool under his palm. He twisted. Click. A sliver of hallway air slipped in; old dust, faint rain, the promise of escape. Maybe the breeze would scrub the antique stink of Marie's library from his skin, wash the Playbook's heat from his thoughts.
"Wait."
The single word cracked the silence. His hand froze mid-turn. A spark of hope flared, stupid and warm, in his chest.
