“Well, I’ll be damned,” she drawls, voice rougher than I remember, worn down by time or something heavier. “As I live and breathe. If it isn’t Collins Combs himself. What in the world brings you back here?”
“Where’s your brother?” The words come out sharp, clipped. I don’t have the patience for this. “I’m not here for small talk. I just need to know where that piece of shit is.”
“Lee?” she repeats, and there’s something in her tone. Something I can’t quite place. Not surprise. Not quite.
“Yes.Lee,” I snap. “Where the hell is he? We’ve got unfinished business.”
She studies me for a moment, like she’s trying to decide something, then lets out a quiet, almost disbelieving breath. “You really have been gone a long time, haven’t you?”
A flicker of confusion cuts through my anger. “What are you talking about, Steph? I don’t have time for this. I need to see him. Does he still drive that old piece of shit? Is he here?”
I try to look past her, into the house, searching for any sign of him. But her hand shoots out, pressing flat against my chest, stopping me cold.
And I don’t know why, but the contact sets something off inside me. Irritation spikes, sharp and immediate. I jerk back with a snarl, shaking her off like her touch burns.
Her expression shifts, just slightly.
“Lee’s dead, Collins.”
Everything stops.
The world spins. Something swirls around inside, leaving me dizzy. I can’t catch up. The anger, the drive, the focus that got me here. It all crashes into something else, something tangled and unsteady.
Relief.
Or maybe it’s disappointment.
Hell, maybe it’s both.
And I don’t know which one hits harder.
Steph watches me carefully, like she’s bracing for something. Then she steps back, pulling the door open wider.
“Why don’t you come inside,” she says, her voice quieter now, almost tired. “I’ll catch you up on everything you’ve missed over the past ten years.”
She steps back, and I cross the threshold, the little asshole of a dog brushing past my leg as I do. It pauses just long enough to shoot me another look before trotting off.
I don’t know why the thing gets under my skin. I love dogs.
Just…not this one.
The house hits me the second I’m inside.
It’s not how I remember it. I’d been here a handful of times growing up—back when everything felt lighter. Warmer. Now there’s a heaviness to it. A stale, lingering stillness that clings to its surroundings.
Steph disappears into the kitchen, and I follow, slower this time, my eyes catching on details that feel both familiar and wrong all at once.
She pulls out an old wooden barstool from the counter, the legs scraping softly against the floor. A blue-and-white frilly cushion is tied to the seat, worn and faded. She nods toward the stool beside it, a silent invitation.
I don’t take it.
Instead, I step up to the counter, bracing my hands against the surface. “I don’t need to sit,” I say, my voice tighter than I intend. “Can you just tell me what I’m missing? Your brother is dead?”
Exhaling slowly, she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a cigarette case. The old-fashioned kind, leather with a metal clasp that clicks when it closes. My chest tightens at the sight of it. My grandma Debbie had one just like that. Used to carry it everywhere.
Steph flips it open, taps out a cigarette, and lights it without a word, despite the fact she just finished one. The flame flickers briefly between us before she inhales, deep and steady.
Ash falls onto the counter as she lowers her hand, like she doesn’t even notice she’s doing it.