As he moved toward the front door to leave, he pulled a sleek, matte-black business card from his pocket and handed it to me.
“Hey, Rupert,” he said, shaking my hand warmly. “If I ever decide to produce a documentary series focusing on high-risk, invisible infrastructure jobs… can I give you a call?”
I slipped the card into my flannel pocket. “Sure thing, Declan. Safe travels.”
Behind him, I could see Brooke leaning against the wall.
Declan thanked my mother for her hospitality, offered a sympathetic nod to Kyle, and stepped out into the freezing evening.
The heavy oak door clicked shut.
The silence that followed was heavy and final.
Brooke pushed herself off the wall. She turned toward me, her eyes dead and vacant.
“You ruined my life today,” she whispered.
“From an objective standpoint, your life appears largely intact.”
“He came to this house specifically for me.”
“Yes, he did.”
