I made fun of him for it once—when his parents visited and we all met for dinner at Elio’s, his parents’ favorite place on the Upper East Side. His father almost choked on his honey chipotle salmon when I said I was grateful our kids couldn’t inherit Graham’s college fight nose. He cleared his throat, staring at Graham like if it weren’t for the table between them, he’d have him up against the wall, his hands gripping Graham’s collar. I never brought it up again. Clearly the behavior was so unbecoming of a Walker that it need not be mentioned in public. That should be the least of their worries, as far as I was concerned.

I tapped Graham’s waiting right fist.

“Interesting choice...” he mumbled. When he unraveled his fingers, I braced myself, but inside he revealed a key, resting in his palm. I smiled. I gasped. I threw my hand against my mouth and looked at him like I’d never been happier in my life.

It felt like he was offering me the bullet I needed to shoot myself. Like his hands around my neck were tightening and tightening. This is all part of the plan, I thought. I knew this was coming. I wanted this. I needed this.

So I made sure the smile stayed plastered on my pathetic face.

“A key to your heart?” I asked, ever the charmer.

He laughed and took my hand and the warm metal squished between our palms. “My heart and my apartment.”

Obviously. What else would it be for? A storage unit in Astoria where he keeps dead bodies?

“You never even lock the door,” I said.

He laughed and sat next to me, planting a kiss on my lips before I could object. “It’s symbolic. A gesture.”

I took the key from his hand and moved it between my fingers and the heat of suffocation began to fade into calm. Slowly, I could breathe again. My chest could move up and down without me having to remind it to do so. Because this was all part of the plan. And this meant it was going well.