Three days passed, and Damien was a ghost in his own house.
He left before she woke. He came home after she'd gone to bed. When they did cross paths, in the hall or on the stairs, he was polite. He said "Mrs. Crew," and "Good evening," and "Please excuse me." He never touched her. He never looked at her for longer than two seconds.
It was like being politely haunted.
And there were new things, too. Silveria noticed them one at a time, the way you notice a crack spreading in glass. A tall man in a dark coat who stood at the end of the street when she walked to the boutique. Another one in the back of the café, reading a newspaper upside down. A new car at her door, black and heavy, with a driver who never spoke.
On the third morning, she marched up to the tall man in the dark coat.
"Excuse me. Are you following me?"
He turned the color of a tomato. "Ma'am. No, ma'am. I'm... protecting you."
"By standing behind a lamp post?"
"I was told to keep a respectful distance."
