Page 14 of Graves

“It stays between us, right?” I mumble.

“Of course.”

“Thanks.”

Fox turns on the nightstand lamp and helps me to my feet. “Get some rest. It was a long day. We’ll figure out tomorrow when it comes.”

I nod and hold on to him when he pulls me into a hug.

“It’s good to have you back. Don’t let anyone tell you different.”

A moment later, I’m alone in my room, staring at the huge bed. For five years, I dreamed of this moment. Now that I’m here, I can’t shake the feeling that I don’t deserve to sleep in it.

The tightness in my chest is still there—the one that’s followed me since release. Sometimes stronger, sometimes weaker. Especially when I’m alone, I can’t ignore it.

I know it’s just my nerves, but it still feels disturbing.

Fox left a small plastic bag on the freshly made bed. Inside, I find a toothbrush, body wash, shampoo, a brush, a razor, and shaving cream. Two fresh towels are already in the bathroom—probably Sue again.

He told me on the plane that he’d checked on the locked rooms from time to time. Four years ago, he suggested a house sitter, but I said no. When he brought it up again a year ago, I knew he already had someone in mind.

I didn’t want to give him more work, so I agreed—probably because I’d accepted I’d be doing my full ten years. Only Lucy, my lawyer, never gave up hope and pulled off a miracle.

Now I’m back in an apartment that’s about twenty times bigger than the cell I shared with another guy for the last five years. Freshly showered, I stand in the open bathroom doorway, towel-drying my hair, and stare at a room that feels at least three times too big.

It was prison, sure. Maybe I just convinced myself the tiny space was somehow cozy. But I found a sense of safety there at some point. It helped the panic attacks become less frequent.

In fresh boxers and a Clash T-shirt, I sit on the bed, bounce a little, and notice how soft the mattress is. I try. I lie down, roll onto my side, fluff the pillow, roll to the other side, kick the blanket off, pull it back up to my chin, spread my arms, curl up again…

“Fuck…”

Without thinking, I shove the duvet and a pillow aside. I slide off the bed and lie down on the floor under the window. A little while later, sleep finally takes me.

—

Even though I slept almost six hours, I feel like I got hit by a truck. Elbows on the counter beside the stove, I sit on the stool and massage my forehead. I’ve been up for three hours—partly jet lag, partly the early-morning prison routine I can’t shake.

I’d love to sleep more, but the second I’m awake, the carousel in my head starts spinning again. The headache is worse than yesterday, and I can’t figure out where it’s coming from.

“Morning,” a voice says.

I lift my head. Koh is standing there.

“Morning,” I grumble, trying not to stare at him the way I did last night—though I doubt I could top that.

He’s wearing a light gray knit sweater, faded jeans cuffed high enough to show his ankles, and white sneakers. His black hair—definitely Japanese, not Greek or Russian—is tied up on top with a hair tie. He’s lean, and the way he moves to the coffee machine, slides a mug under it, and hits the button makes it clear he works out.

I stayed in shape in prison too. Not much else to do.

“Sleep well?” he asks, purely out of politeness.

“Hm…” I finish my coffee and check the clock. Almost eleven. “Don’t you have to work?”

Koh turns and leans against the counter while his mug fills. “No rush.”

Maybe I’m imagining the snappy tone, but he doesn’t look happy.

“Morning person, huh?” I mutter, getting up and putting my dirty mug in the sink.