Roman paced halfway down the front steps before turning around again, the anger in his chest refusing to settle. Misty's voice, sharp and mocking from earlier, still echoed in his ears. He didn't even know why he'd come after her—frustration, rage, pride, all tangled together—but his feet carried him back to the peeling apartment door anyway.
He lifted his hand and knocked hard.
The door cracked open just wide enough for half of Misty's irritated face to appear. "What?"
Roman's jaw was clenched. "I want to see your part of the will."
Her eyes went wide with incredulity. "You stormed up the stairs just to demand paperwork?"
"Yes"
"Well," she muttered, "you really are allergic to basic manners."
He ignored the jab. "Give it to me."
Misty sighed melodramatically and then shut the door. For a moment he thought she might leave him outside just to spite him—he wouldn't put it past her—but after some fumbling sounds, the door opened again. This time she extended a folded sheet of paper.
"There," she snapped, "take it and go before you ruin the rest of my day."
Roman snatched it and stepped back. "You didn't have to act like I asked for your soul."
"It kind of feels like you did," she said, crossing her arms. Then, without waiting for his reply, she shut the door in his face.
He stared at the wood for three long seconds before forcing himself to walk away. He unfolded the document once he was outside the building and started to read, expecting…he wasn't sure what. Proof she was lying? Evidence his father had been manipulated?
But as his eyes scanned over the handwriting, something pricked at his attention.
Letter written twice.
A misspelled name.
A sentence where the first letter of every word is slanted differently than others.
Roman frowned and squatted at the edge of the walkway, the paper trembling lightly between his fingers. His father had always had clean, sharp, controlled handwriting-but near the end of his life, everything became fragmented. Roman remembered signing hospital forms on behalf of his father because the man couldn't write more than a shaky line. The doctors explained it: progressing dyslexia paired with cognitive decline.
He hated seeing his father that way, weak, human.
Now, staring at the inconsistent script on Misty's paper, a cold weight settled beneath his ribs.
It… matched.
Not perfectly - nothing in these final months had been perfect, and the strange slants, the doubled letters, the misspelled words. those were real. Those were his father's imperfections. Authentic flaws.
He swallowed hard.
This did not read like a letter from a mistress. This was the writing of a man who was losing control over his words, desperate to convey something with someone whom he trusted. Someone he needed. Someone he—
No.
Roman closed his eyes and inhaled abruptly to shake off that sudden turn his mind had just taken. He wasn't going to feel sorry for a girl who'd managed to turn his world inside out in twenty-four hours.
Still… the evidence was right in front of him.
He suddenly stood and marched back up the stairs. Again, he knocked, this time a little less firmly.
"What now?" Misty repeated, opening the door only partway. Her hair was mussed a little, probably from having run her hand through it in exasperation.
Roman lifted the paper. "Where did this come from? Did he send it? Have you met him somewhere? Why is the handwriting like this?"
Misty blinked. "Why do you sound like you're interrogating a suspect?"
"I'm not—just answer."
She sighed. "Fine. Let me think…." She pursed her lips. "He wrote it the day he visited me. Well—not visited. More like… appeared out of nowhere on the street."
Roman frowned. "Street?"
"Yeah." Misty leaned against the doorframe. "I was coming from the grocery store. He was sitting on a bench, looking confused. He didn't even know where he was. I thought he was lost, so I helped him get water and rest."
Roman's pulse kicked. "He didn't tell you who he was?
"No. Not at first." She hesitated. "He kept asking if I was safe. If I… remembered something." Her fingers twisted together nervously. "Then he started calling me by a name I didn't recognize. And before I could ask anything, he tried to give me this envelope.
Roman just stared at her. Misty really did seem upset-not guilty, not defensive, just overwhelmed.
"And you believed him?" Roman asked in a softer voice than before.
"No," Misty said with a blunt candor. "He scared me a little, honestly. But he wasn't dangerous. Just… lost." She dropped her gaze. "He told me to keep the envelope until someone came asking. I didn't think it was real. I didn't think he was real. I thought-" She shook her head. "Never mind."
A strange tug pulled at Roman's chest - a feeling he didn't like at all. "Thought what?"
Misty vacillated again. "I thought he was crazy."
It was the honesty that took him aback.
"I guess I understand now," she said quietly. "He wasn't crazy. He was sick."
Roman's throat tightened in that way he hated. Slowly, he folded the paper. "Why didn't you say this earlier?"
"You were yelling at me the whole time." Her eyes hardened. "And accusing me of things I didn't even understand."
To that, he didn't have a very good answer.
Misty's voice shook a little as she continued, "Everything you think you know about me is wrong. I never wanted anything from your father. The only time I even saw him was that day. I helped because he looked like he needed it." She stopped a moment. "People like you… you expect everyone to want something from you. But some of us are just trying to survive."
The words cut deeper than he had anticipated. Roman swallowed. Guilt, sharp and unfamiliar, seeped into his chest. He hated it. He didn't want it. He opened his mouth to apologize or defend himself, but Misty cut him off. "I don't owe you explanations." She lifted her chin. "And I don't want your pity." Saying that, she slammed the door before he could add anything else. Harder than the first time. Roman blew out a heavy-sounding breath. He stared at the chipped paint, something stirring deep inside him that he hadn't felt in years. Shame. He turned and started down the stairs, his jaw clenched, his mind spiraling. He wasn't angry with Misty anymore. Anger was directed at himself.