Page 145 of Lady and the Hitman
One of many I’d told myself.
The air shifted the second we turned onto the gravel drive. The tires crunched over the stones, the trees casting long shadows across the road. Magnolias bloomed near the fence line, and the old welcome sign leaned just slightly to the left.
My chest squeezed.
It was the same.
But something felt wrong.
The car rolled to a stop, and I climbed out before the driver could even say goodbye. The house loomed in front of me—weathered and soft around the edges. I half-expected my mother to be on the porch, pruning a potted fern or wiping her hands on an apron. But the swing was still. The steps were empty.
I walked up anyway.
The front door was unlocked.
“Mom?” I called. “Dad?”
A pause.
Then the sound of movement—soft, slow footsteps, followed by my mother’s voice. “Zara?”
She appeared at the end of the hallway, wiping her hands on a dish towel. Her face lit up with surprise that quickly melted into concern.
“What are you doing here, honey?”
I opened my mouth. Closed it again. The lump in my throat made it hard to speak.
“I just needed to see you,” I finally said. “Can I stay for a bit?”
Her eyes searched mine, and something flickered across her face—worry, maybe, or fear—but she nodded. “Of course. You don’t even have to ask.”
She pulled me into a hug, and I sank into her arms like I was twelve again, scraped up and scared afterfalling off my bike. She smelled like lavender and something warm from the oven.
I held on longer than I meant to.
When she pulled back, her eyes softened. “You want some tea?”
“Sure.”
She padded back toward the kitchen, and I followed, my steps dragging.
The house was quiet, but not peaceful. It felt brittle, like if I touched the wrong thing, it might all collapse.
We sat at the table—me gripping a mug of chamomile, her pretending not to study me too hard.
“Is it him?” she finally asked.
I didn’t answer right away. “It’s everything.”
She waited, patient and still, like she always had when I came home too wound up to speak.
“I learned something,” I said. “Something about his past. Something I didn’t want to know.”
Her expression didn’t change. But the way she exhaled told me she understood.
“You still want him?”
I looked down into my tea. “I don’t think I can.”
