Page 17 of Shattered

Delia appeared in paint-stained sweatpants and an oversized shirt hanging loosely off her frame. Her hair was piled on top of her head in a catastrophic bun, dark circles under her eyes, one ankle wrapped in a medical boot.

She stared at me like she was trying to remember who I was and why I was standing in her doorway.

I held up the coffee. “I heard you’re injured.”

Her expression shifted through several emotions too fast to track. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

“I was in the neighborhood.”

“You live in Manhattan. There’s no reason you’d be in this part of Brooklyn on a weekday morning.” She leaned against the doorframe, not quite blocking my entrance but not inviting me in either. “But thanks for the coffee, I guess.”

“Have you eaten today?”

“I had toast.”

The way she said it made me suspect she’d thought about having toast, which wasn’t remotely the same thing.

“Can I come in? Just to confirm that you’re actually okay.” When she looked confused, I added, “For Daniel.”

She hesitated, something warring in her face. Pride versus exhaustion. Finally she stepped aside with visible reluctance.

The apartment was medium-sized—cozy, yet somehow spacious.

Her kitchen area flowed into living space, a door off to the side that probably led to a bedroom. It smelled like turpentine with a faint undercurrent of flowers. Canvases leaned against every available wall, most of them blank. Dishes were piled in the sink but nothing catastrophic. Mail covered the counter unopened.

It was the apartment of someone who’d stopped participating in basic life maintenance but hadn’t fully given up.

I set the coffee and pastries on the counter and turned to find Delia watching me with her arms crossed, chin up, daring me to comment on the state of things.

“You can report back to Daniel that I’m alive and functioning,” she said. “Mission accomplished. Brotherly obligation fulfilled by proxy.”

“How are you coping with your mother?”

She paused. Sadness flickered in her eyes so fast that I cursed myself internally for asking. “She’s declining faster than expected.” She said it lightly, like it didn’t matter, but I noticed her hands were shaking. “These phone calls are getting harder.”

“I’m sorry.”

She laughed—not a real laugh, something bitter and exhausted. “Everyone’s sorry. Sorry might be the most useless word in the English language. I’m drowning in sympathy and none of it changes anything.” She stopped, she looked at me, and then her expression morphed to horror. “Ugh. I didn’t mean to snap at you when you’re just trying to help.”

“You’re allowed to snap. This situation is impossible. No one expects you to handle it gracefully.”

“Then what exactly do people expect from me?”

I considered the question honestly. “Probably nothing useful. Most people are terrible at dealing with other people’s disasters.”

The answer surprised her enough that her defensive posture softened slightly. She reached for one of the coffee cups, and our fingers brushed—just for a second. She pulled back quickly, tucked hair behind her ear in that gesture I’d seen a thousand times.

“What do you actually need?” I asked.

Her face crumpled slightly before she yanked it back together. “I need my mother to stop forgetting. I need everyone to stop looking at me like I’m something broken that needs fixing.” She said it lightly, like she was joking, but I heard the fracture underneath.

“You’re not broken.”

“That’s exactly what people say to broken things.” She took a sip of coffee. “Why are you really here? What did Daniel tell you? What crisis level have I apparently reached that requires billionaire intervention?”

The question landed like an accusation.

“Daniel is worried. He asked me to check in. It’s not that complicated.”