Page 55 of Their Arrangement

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Then he turned.

Walked off into the rain.

No goodbye.

No apology.

Just silence.

Just the sound of his boots scraping the gravel.

And me?—

Left there.

Pressed to her grave.

Alone.

Again.

7

WOLFE

I didn’t remember startingthe engine.

Didn’t remember turning the wheel. Didn’t remember the gravel crunching beneath my tires as I pulled away from the cemetery, the sound of the iron gate slamming shut behind me like a warning. Like it was trying to keep something in—or trying to keep me out.

But I was driving.

Wet, quiet, empty streets. The kind that belonged to ghosts.

The kind that didn’t remember your name even if you bled on the pavement.

My hands gripped the steering wheel too tightly. Leather bit into my palms. The windshield wipers swiped in slow rhythm, but they couldn’t erase what I still saw.

Cloe.

Kneeling in the rain.

Her knees buried in the grass. Her curls matted to her face. Her voice too soft to hear, but not too soft to feel.

She talked to that stone like it would answer. Like Camillewould rise and tell her everything was okay. Like she still believed in mercy.

Camille’s name was etched behind her head like a crown. And in front of her—flat on the marble—a photo. Two girls laughing in silk. I remembered the night that picture was taken.

Camille had texted me afterwards. Said Cloe cried when she got home. Said she gave her leftovers from dinner and the dress she “didn’t like.”

Said it felt good to do something right.

I never answered.

Didn’t know what to say.

Didn’t think Camille needed me to say anything when she already knew the truth.

Cloe didn’t belong.

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