Chapter 4

The hotel room smelled like lemon cleaner and old air-conditioning.

I noticed that before I noticed my own hands.

They were wrapped around the fountain pen so tightly that the engraving had pressed faint little dents into my palm. Sign it like it's yours. Five years ago, those words had sounded like a promise.

Now they felt like a dare someone had written without believing I would ever accept it.

I set it on the desk beside the room-service menu and opened my laptop.

Not Bellweather's laptop. Mine. The cheap silver one I used for grocery lists, holiday photos, and…