Page 35 of The Grief We Hold

“Fuck,” I curse, and storm around the corner into the hardware store. It smells of freshly cut wood and varnish, and it takes me no time to find the things I want. An industrial door lock and keys, a dead bolt, an additional sliding lock, and a screwdriver kit with all the bits I’m gonna need.

Old man Dobson is sitting at the cash register, but he shouts when I walk straight for the door without paying. “You can’t just take all those.”

Pissed, I turn and go back to the counter before pointing to the ceiling. “You’re charging that woman and kid up there rent. Least you can do is pay for a proper fucking lock to keep them safe.”

“The rent’s low. She’s not expecting a palace,” he says.

“I’m taking the fucking lock. You should be relieved I’m not sending you the bill for my fucking labor.”

He holds my gaze for a second, and then, like a dog in the face of a wolf, he drops his chin. “Fine. Go ahead.”

When I leave, I slam the door behind me.

11

RAVEN

The hammering on the front door makes me jump, and for a moment, I simply stand and stare in the direction of the noise.

The knife I was using to chop the sweet potatoes is heavy in my hand, and I debate taking it with me. Instead, I look out of the window and see Wraith looking up at me from the street. “Open the fucking door, Raven.”

I place the knife out of Fen’s reach, wipe my hands on the cloth, then hurry down the stairs.

When I open the door, Wraith has a bunch of hardware supplies in his hands. “Gonna put a new lock on your door,” he says.

The simple gift of safety warms my heart more than any bouquet of flowers I ever received.

“Wraith,” I say, the word breathier than I intended.

“It’s just door locks,” he says. “Shouldn’t have a kid in here with such crappy locks anyone can open. What if he tries to get out in the night? Or a fucking weirdo tries to kick the door down?”

My initial reaction is to argue, but I catch sight of something in his eyes. It looks a lot like…longing.

Yet his tone contains something close to anguish and fear.

It makes no sense.

“There are a million things I wish I could do to make the world safer for Fen, but the reality is my budget can’t buy that right now. Believe it or not, this crappy apartment in the middle of nowhereissafety to us.”

He looks down at the floor for a moment, and I see his shoulders rise and lower, like he just took the deepest breath. “You gonna let me fit them?” he asks.

“I can’t afford them.”

“You don’t need to pay for them.”

For a moment, I consider refusing them. But in a battle that measures my pride against Fen’s safety, my son wins every time. “Thank you.”

“I’m gonna get started.”

I step back into the small hallway at the bottom of the stairs. “Can I get you a drink? I don’t have alcohol, but I have coffee. I can make it as sweet as you like.”

Wraith’s features ease. “Coffee. Sweet would be good.”

Something in the simple request makes my heart beat harder. When I married Marco, I worked reception at the local tire dealership so didn’t make great money. I wasn’t career minded or that clever at school. All I wanted was to excel at being a good wife. To make an apple pie and have it savored. To create a home my husband could come home to and leave the worries he carried at the door.

I wanted that feeling of being valued by someone.

I hurry up the stairs and grab the fresh coffee grounds from the fridge. The smell of coffee soon fills the apartment, and it only takes five minutes before I’m walking down the stairs, cup in hand. “Here you go.”

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