In the bottom drawer of the dresser, she found a stack of folded papers she had forgotten about: apartment applications from years earlier, job listings she had printed when she still thought about leaving, brochures for counseling services she never called because Darnell monitored the phone bill.
She sat on the floor and held them.
The woman who had printed those pages had been trying to save herself quietly.
Lenora wanted to reach back through time and hold her.
At three fifteen, the door opened.
She froze.
Darnell stood in the doorway.
His tie was gone. His jacket was wrinkled. His eyes were red, whether from tears or anger she could not tell. For one terrifying second, the apartment became every closed room she had ever feared.
Then Mr. Wilson stepped into view behind him.
“Sir,” he said. “You were instructed not to enter.”
Darnell ignored him, staring at Lenora.
