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He still had a few weeks. “Why so soon?”
“Why wait? Life’s too short.” Albert watched me take in the scene. Stacks of boxes were piled up, but it looked like there was still a lot to do. “I’m not taking everything. Some things are too much trouble to carry, you know? But I figured since you’re bulldozing this place anyway, I might as well leave it here to die with the rest of it.”
He talked about the apartment like it was on life support. Like it was a person. That’s definitely how Charlie saw it.
She’d have to mourn another loss after her parents, her childhood. A loss I had caused.
I thought of the contract sitting on my kitchen table. The end of this springtime romance was written there in black and white.
The movers walked back inside, encroaching on our space. Albert and I scooted over to the kitchen. Colored light shimmered over the floor and cabinets, and I followed it to the fly-and-honeypot stained glass window. It, like so much of this place, was like Charlie’s fingerprint stamped all over the building. It made me want to throw a rock through it, just so I wouldn’t have to face the reality of what I’d done. What I still had to do.
Albert kicked a couple of bins, and their contents clinked, bringing my attention back to him. “You want any of these?”
I peered down at his collection of hand and power tools—the ones he’d used to patch up the roof leak and my bedroom ceiling. He’d left his prints on this place too. “You’re not taking them?”
“I’m retired now. Officially.”
I guess Albert didn’t need them anymore, and since I was going back to my life in the city, I didn’t need them either. “No, thanks.”
“Then, I’ll leave ’em behind. Maybe one of these guys will take them home.” He nodded toward the movers. Then he pulled his keys from his pocket, slipped off an old brass one, and handed it to me. “I guess this belongs to you now.”
“Thanks,” I said, feeling its weight, like I’d been entrusted with something important. Something valuable. But the more I stared at it, the more it looked like an old, worthless hunk of metal warming in the heat of my palm.
“I’m leaving later tonight. Got a room at the inn. Not as nice as your theater hotel will be, but it’ll do before I head west tomorrow.”
I stuck out my hand, knowing that he wouldn’t be my neighbor anymore. “Albert, you’re a good man. I wish you all the best.”
Albert gave me a firm but warm handshake. “You too, Sebastian. You too.”
I went back inside my apartment, surveying the space once more. It was as old and worn as it had ever been. Still a death trap. Still a fire hazard. Still slated for demolition.
Teeth gritted, I sat and read over the sale contract one last time. The Monticello was being sold on the condition that the town council approved the plans to build a new hotel in its place. That condition had been met.
Radcliffe House was sold for the land. As per the contract, it was my responsibility to pay for and complete the demolition. I wouldn’t turn it over to Sinclair until the ground was scraped clear.
I read the clauses over again, grimacing. I didn’t like it, but I’d have to be the bad guy. After all, Radcliffe blood ran through my veins. Stubbornness turned my heart to stone as I stacked the sheets of paper and set the contract down on the kitchen table.
I had to do this to make things right. I just wished Charlie didn’t see me as wrong.
THIRTY-SIX
CHARLIE
Abigail flapped around me like a worried hen. My body ached from sleeping on the porch swing all night, and I waved her off as she asked me for the thousandth time if I was okay. I locked myself in the bathroom and stood under the spray of water for so long my skin turned red and raw, then put on the sweatpants and soft T-shirt Abigail had left out for me.
I emerged from the steamy bathroom and found my friend gnawing on her thumbnail in the hallway.
“Why didn’t you break in?” she demanded.
“To your house?”
“Yes, to my house! You could have frozen to death.”
I gave her a flat look. “Unlikely, it was sixty-five degrees outside. So where were you?”
Her eyes slid to the side. “I…got in a little trouble. But it’s nothing,” she hurried to add, grabbing my wrist to tow me to the kitchen.
She’d shown up at her house wearing her disgusting, soiled gown. I’d get the story out of her eventually—including why it was Rex Montgomery who had driven her home in his Silverado. Now, she was freshly showered, wearing athletic shorts and a tank top, but still had deep purple smudges under her eyes. It was like she’d spent the night in a difficult position. That made two of us.
