Chapter 38: The Glass Bowl Slipped from Clara's Fingers

The glass bowl slipped from Clara's fingers, shattering on the kitchen floor with a crisp explosion.

She crouched down, a shard slicing her fingertip open. Staring at the bead of blood, tears suddenly splashed onto the back of her hand.

Six years. Over two thousand days. Some habits had seeped into her bones.

When news of Grant's hospitalization reached her, her first instinct was to grab her coat. Only when her fingers touched the doorknob did reality crash over her.

They were over.

She slowly wiped her tears. The cracks in their relationship had appeared long ago—perhaps with his first broken promise, perhaps with his first lie.

Memories blurred like watercolor paintings left in the rain.

* * *

Victoria's stilettos hammered an angry rhythm down the hallway. She kicked aside a garbage bag with disgust. "How can anyone live in this dump?"

Her phone rang abruptly.

"Bro? Didn't the doctors tell you not to use your phone?" Her tone was sharp, yet her voice instinctively softened.

In the hospital room, Grant stared at the IV drip. Mason stood by the bed, shrugging helplessly. "Couldn't stop her. She insisted on seeing Clara."

Forty minutes. Three position changes. Twelve glances at the door. Finally, Grant picked up his phone.

"Where are you?"

Victoria hesitated. "Out."

"When are you coming back?"

"I'm going home to get the chicken soup—"

"Where's Clara?" His voice turned brittle.

Silence.

The silence was answer enough.

Grant's voice dropped to subzero. "Who told you to contact her? We're done!"

"Fine! I shouldn't have bothered!" Victoria exploded. "Clara said she wouldn't care if you died!"

Dead air.

"Bro?"

Only dial tone answered.

* * *

The latest smartphone lay in pieces on the hospital floor. Mrs. Palmer quietly retreated two steps, tucking the spare phone deeper into her pocket.

Not lending this one out. No way.