The rain had stopped by morning, but the world outside Glory's window still looked like it hadn't forgiven her for last night. A thin, milky light seeped through the curtains, catching the dust in the air like secrets she couldn't sweep away.
She lay in bed beside David, but there was an ocean between them. His back was turned. His breathing was steady — too steady — like he'd trained himself not to feel anything at all.
Glory traced the line of his shoulder with her eyes. She wanted to reach out, slide her arm around him, bury her face in the warmth of his neck. But she didn't move. She just lay there, counting the seconds between her heartbeat and his silence.
When she couldn't stand it anymore, she slipped out of bed. The floor was cold under her bare feet. She found one of David's old sweaters on the chair and pulled it over her nightgown, burying herself in its faded softness.
She padded downstairs, the house too big, too quiet. Every door she passed whispered Cynthia. The walls still held her laughter, her perfume, the way she'd filled every corner without even trying.
Glory hated how small she felt here now. Like a guest in someone else's forever home.
She found the kitchen empty. A cold mug of coffee sat on the counter — David's. He'd come down here, poured it, then left it untouched. Maybe he couldn't swallow anything this morning. Maybe he was still trying to swallow her.
She was about to toss the cold coffee when she noticed something on the table — a manila envelope, damp at the corners where condensation from the coffee had touched it.
Her name was scrawled across the front in a messy, slanted hand. Glory.
She didn't need to open it to know who it was from. Manny had a way of finding the cracks in her life and slipping inside.
Her hands trembled as she opened it. Inside, a single Polaroid. Old, grainy. Cynthia again — but this time she wasn't smiling. She was sitting at that same kitchen table, chin propped on her hand, eyes glassy like she'd been crying for hours.
On the back, in Manny's ugly block letters: What did she know?
Glory pressed her fist to her mouth. She didn't remember Cynthia like this. She remembered her best friend radiant and sharp, the brightest flame in any room. Not this husk, this secret sorrow.
The photo slipped from her fingers and fluttered to the floor. She sank into a chair, pressing her forehead to the table. The wood was cold. Her mind was burning.
✦
Upstairs, David sat on the edge of the bed, head in his hands. He'd heard Glory go downstairs, heard the creak of the old kitchen chair.
He wanted to follow her — to wrap her in his arms, tell her none of this mattered, that he would burn the whole house down before he let Manny's poison take root between them.
But his chest felt hollow. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Cynthia's smile layered over Glory's face, the edges bleeding together until he didn't know where one ended and the other began.
He pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes until fireworks sparked in the darkness. It didn't help. He could still see both of them. He could still hear Manny's voice whispering: She took her place.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand. A text from Bello.
Manny's gone underground. He won't stop. Watch her. Don't let her be alone.
David tossed the phone aside. He didn't need Bello to tell him what he already knew — Glory was alone even when he was right beside her.
✦
Glory didn't hear David come down the stairs. She was still at the table, staring at the Polaroid on the floor like it might crawl away if she blinked.
He paused in the doorway, watching her. The soft sweater swallowed her small frame. She looked breakable in a way that scared him — breakable like glass already cracked.
When he stepped closer, she startled. She hid it badly.
"Where'd that come from?" he asked, nodding at the envelope.
Glory's voice was hoarse. "Manny."
David's jaw tightened. "When?"
She shook her head. "I don't know. Maybe last night. Maybe he slipped it through the door. Maybe he's been here the whole time."
David crouched to pick up the Polaroid. His fingers brushed hers. She flinched, but didn't pull away.
He studied Cynthia's face in the photo. "She looks… sad."
Glory pressed her hands flat on the table to keep them from shaking. "Did you ever see her like that?"
David's eyes flicked to her, wary. "Sometimes. Late at night. She'd sit by the window. She'd say she was fine, but… she wasn't."
Glory's voice dropped to a whisper. "What didn't we see, David?"
David dropped the photo back onto the table like it had burned him. "I don't know."
Silence swallowed them again. The clock on the wall ticked so loudly it felt like it was counting down to something neither of them could name.
✦
By afternoon, Glory couldn't sit still anymore. She found herself in the attic — a place she hadn't set foot in since Cynthia died. Dust rose in soft clouds as she pushed boxes aside, her hands trembling as they tugged open old cartons of memories.
There it was — Cynthia's diary. Soft leather cover, edges frayed, pages yellowed at the corners. Glory had promised herself she'd never open it. Respect the dead. But what did Manny care about respect? He was already digging up bones. She couldn't let him have the truth first.
She sat on the floor, back against an old trunk. Her fingers hovered over the first page. She could almost hear Cynthia's voice, teasing her from the doorway. You better not read that, Glo. It's all nonsense anyway.
She opened it.
✦
Cynthia's words were a tangle — sharp, beautiful, sad.
March 12th.
I watched him today. He was in the garden, talking to her. I know he says it's nothing. But I can feel it. The space between us is growing teeth.
Glory's breath caught. She flipped the page.
April 7th.
Sometimes I think about driving away. Just keep driving until the ocean swallows me up. But then I think about him alone in this house and I hate myself for wanting to leave.
Another page.
May 1st.
She doesn't know. She thinks we're all best friends forever. But secrets grow in the dark, don't they?
Glory slammed the diary shut. Her heart was pounding so hard she thought she might throw up. What secrets? What didn't Cynthia tell her?
✦
David found her like that — curled up on the attic floor, the diary pressed to her chest like it might fly away.
He crouched beside her, his hand hovering over her hair. "What did you find?"
She lifted her head slowly. Her eyes were red, wild. "She knew."
"Knew what?"
"That we were falling in love before she was gone," Glory whispered. "She knew, David. She knew and she… she didn't stop it."
David sank back onto his heels. The attic felt too small for the two of them — full of old dust and fresh guilt.
Glory's shoulders shook. "I didn't kill her. But maybe I killed us."
David didn't know what to say. He reached for her hand, but she pulled it away, pressing her knuckles to her mouth to smother a sob.
✦
Downstairs, the doorbell rang. Once. Twice.
David glanced at the attic door, then back at Glory. "Stay here."
She didn't answer. She just stared at the diary in her lap, lips moving silently as if she were trying to talk to Cynthia through the pages.
David made his way down the creaking steps, heart pounding in his throat. He peeked through the peephole.
No one.
He opened the door a crack — empty front porch, wet leaves stuck to the railings.
Then he looked down. Another envelope. He picked it up, hands shaking.
It was heavier this time. He opened it right there on the porch. Inside — another photo. This one wasn't Cynthia.
It was Glory — last night — in the attic window, the soft glow behind her framing her like a ghost. And scrawled beneath it, in Manny's jagged scrawl:
Ghosts don't stay buried.