“Who’s that?” I ask, pointing to the guy linked with Murph.

Without even looking at him, I can feel his expression fall. “That’s Theo.”

“I haven’t met him yet.” My stupid fucking mouth doesn’t want to wait for my brain to think shit through before I start blabbing. And I remember what he told me about what happened to his friend before Hazel died.

“He’s dead,” he mutters before turning away.

“I’m sorry.” I try to reach for him, but he’s already shut down.

Then, I glance around the living room, noticing signs that it hasn’t been lived in for much longer than he’s been at Hazel’s.

“He was your roommate,” I whisper.

Murph doesn’t answer, but it’s enough. How long has he been avoiding living in his own house? The couch looks like it hasn’t been sat on in months.

He’s still walking around the house, avoiding me since I brought up the tough stuff. And I almost follow him, but my leg is a little sore from the tattoo and today was emotionally exhausting already. So I walk over to the weathered light brown leather sofa, and I drop down into the seat. Grabbing a blanket from the back, I pull it over my legs.

I don’t tell him this, but I love it here. It feels like a home, a real home. Hazel’s house is nice, but it’s exactly that: a house. A very expensive house. This is a lived-in home. Or at least it used to be lived in.

He walks around for a few more minutes, until he passes through the living room and stops when he sees me.

“What are you doing?” His voice is gruff and clipped.

“Relaxing. Come sit with me.”

“I have stuff to do,” he says, trying to move away. I reach a hand up and grab his.

“Come sit with me, Murph.”

It takes him a moment to relent, and he lets out a long sigh before he drops into the opposite side. The room grows deliciously silent. We just sit in it, enjoying it for a while before I notice him actually relax, resting his head on the back of the sofa.

Crawling across the couch, I lay my head in his lap. I could fall asleep like this, if only I could get the image of that news reporter out of my head.

Like he could read my mind, he runs his fingers through my hair as he asks, “So what did that reporter say to you?”

I don’t tell him that she knew my name or that she was even able to recognize me based on a photo in my file—whatever that meant. “They knew she was dead. They wanted confirmation.”

“Those fuckers.”

“People will care that she’s gone. She made a difference around here.”