EMILY

He walks into his apartment and doesn’t turn on the lights.

I follow him through the door because he didn’t tell me not to and because the way he moved through the courthouse lobby, straight-backed, briefcase in hand, jaw so tight the muscles were jumping, told me everything his mouth wouldn’t. He walked like a man holding a cracked glass with both hands, every step measured to keep the fracture from spreading.

He stops in the middle of the living room. Puts his briefcase down. ...