It’s Sunday.

The garage is closed. So’s the bar.

Which means I have nowhere to go.

Nothing to do.

I roll over and look at the clock on my nightstand. It’s almost noon.

I came home last night from whatever the hell that was with Declan and went straight to my room. I’ve been hiding in here ever since.

I can hear my dad moving around the apartment. Our Sunday routine dictates that I get up in a few minutes and head to Gino’s to pick up a pizza. Buzz by the corner store for a six-pack of beer. It’s baseball season, so that means we’ll sit in front of the TV and watch the Sox game.

Every Sunday is the same. The only thing that changes is the game we’re watching.

We moved in here when Con bought the garage a few years back. My dad was sick. Fighting lung cancer. Chemo. Radiation. They took out half a lung. Part of another.

I told myself I was moving in to take care of him. That he needed me and it was true.

But that was five years ago.

My dad will never be 100% but he’s doing good. So good that he’s been giving me gentle nudges to move out.

Live my own life.

Problem is, the life I want is a life I can’t have.

I can’t live in the past because it’s too painful. I can’t move forward because there’s no place for me there.

So, I’m stuck.

Standing in one spot, just trying to exist, while everyone I love lives.

Including Declan.

We’re not finished.

The thought pushes me out of bed.

Has me pulling on the same pair of jeans I wore home last night. A sweatshirt over my tank. I jam my feet into my boots and swipe my keys off my dresser. I’m halfway across the living room before my dad pipes up.

“Make sure that corner-cutting bastard doesn’t skimp on the pepperoni this time,” he calls after me. He’s convinced Gino shorts us on toppings every time I order. What he doesn’t know is that I eat half of them off the pizza on the way home.

“Alright,” I say, even though I’m not heading out to pick up a pizza. He talks tough but sometimes I think he relies on our routines more than I do.

I call Gino’s from my car and place an order for delivery, offering the delivery guy an extra twenty to swing by the liquor store to pick up a sixer of Treehouse to go with the pizza.

My dad taken care of, I toss my phone onto the seat next to me and concentrate on the road. It’s baseball season and traffic gets thicker the closer I get to the ballpark.

Pulling into the portico outside Henley’s building, I slam my car into park and she gives a protesting jerk at my rough treatment. “Sorry, girl,” I mumble, patting the dash before I throw my door open. “I won’t be long,” I say to the valet. He knows me. He’s a gearhead. Loves my car. Tries to chat me up every time he sees me. Asked me to a car show last time I was here.

“Sure thing,” he gives me a grin. “Say did you have a chance to—”

“Can’t talk right now,” I say, tossing him a quick look over my shoulder. “I’m kinda in a hurry. Be back in a minute.”

It shouldn’t take me that long to kill Henley.

I can strangle her and be back down here in ten, fifteen minutes, tops.

I buzz by the concierge desk and give him a wave when he opens his mouth. “Hey, Gerald,” I say on my way to the elevator. Jamming my thumb against the button and hold my breath. I always do when I come here. Ever since what Hen told me about Jessica and how she saw her in the elevator getting all hot and heavy with Ephraim Viaga, I keep waiting to see her here. So far my luck has held but it’s baseball season again and Viaga is back in residence. It’s bound to happen.

Declan knows.

Is that why he finally gave in last night?

Because he knows his fiancé is cheating on him?

Because he’s hurt and trying to get back at her?

The elevator doors slide open.

The car is empty.

I step in and punch the number for Henley’s floor and pray that my luck holds.