Reagan unlocked the door to her apartment. She scrunched her nose at the staleness in the air. Sunlight streamed through a gap in the curtains, highlighting floating flecks of dust. Since she had moved back with her parents, she’d intended to stop by her apartment once a week, but after doing the math in her head, she realized she hadn’t been here for almost a month. She missed this place dearly, and everything that used to come with it—independence, freedom from the now constant fear of losing her dad. But when she thought about it like that, she felt selfish, a mixture of emotions she tried to never let herself fully feel because if she did, she knew they had the power to overwhelm her.

Her gaze traveled around the large, open floor plan. The tall windows, exposed brick walls, and gleaming hardwood floors were a comfort and a source of pride. Her loft apartment took up the top floors of the building she bought a year after she and Gwen opened up their first restaurant together. They had formed a restaurant group eight years ago, fulfilling the dream they’d had since high school. After major renovations and finding an artist to lease the first floor as a gallery, they had established their office on the second floor. While Gwen handled everything food related, Reagan controlled the money and logistics. Their partnership had worked so well they’d opened three restaurants, and counting.

She tossed a stack of mail on her kitchen counter and opened the curtains covering the floor-to-ceiling windows. The August sun warmed her face, and she took in a deep breath, only to remember how stuffy it felt. She propped open the door to her small balcony, stepping outside to stare down at the busy streets of downtown Indianapolis. She used to spend a lot of her evenings on this balcony with her feet up on the railing and a beer in her hand while listening to the sounds of the city. She closed her eyes at the memory she felt so far removed from now. Letting out a sigh, she went inside and upstairs to her loft bedroom and opened the windows. With any luck, the breeze would provide some freshness to the neglected space.

After about twenty minutes of organizing and cleaning, the mustiness disappeared, so she closed all the windows and locked the door behind her. She made her way down a flight of stairs and into the office through the back door. Past the conference room was a small open area with three chairs and a desk where her assistant answered a call.

“Taylor Murphy Group. This is Beth. How can I help you?”