Glory sat at the kitchen table long after the attic's dust had settled on her sweater sleeves. The diary lay open in front of her, Cynthia's looping words dancing under the harsh light. Her tea had gone cold. The rain had returned — a soft, steady drumming on the roof that felt like a warning she didn't know how to read.
She kept re-reading the same line: Secrets grow teeth in the dark.
Outside, the garden that once felt like her sanctuary now looked like a graveyard of promises she'd never keep.
David had hovered near her after he brought down the envelope — the second envelope. He hadn't told her right away. He'd stood by the sink, turning the paper over and over in his hands, like maybe if he folded it enough times it would disappear.
But secrets didn't disappear. Not here. Not in this house.
He finally placed it on the table in front of her. She stared at the new photo — herself, framed in the attic window like a ghost behind glass. The angle was too close. Whoever took it hadn't been standing far away.
She looked at David then — really looked at him. The bags under his eyes, the way his shoulders had collapsed inward, as if he'd grown too tired to stand up straight in this fight. He opened his mouth like he wanted to explain something. But no words came. There were no explanations left that could fix this.
They hadn't spoken since.
The grandfather clock in the hall ticked out its slow, unforgiving rhythm. Every tick was a question: How much longer will you pretend this isn't happening?
Glory pushed her chair back and stood. Her legs felt shaky, like she hadn't used them in days. She crossed to the window above the sink and pulled the curtain back with two fingers.
The front gate loomed in the distance — black iron, old and stubborn, half-swallowed by ivy. Beyond it, the narrow street was empty. No headlights, no figures under umbrellas. Just the wet hush of early evening.
She wanted to believe Manny was bluffing. That he was some ghost on the other end of a phone line — all bark, no bite. But Cynthia's photo said otherwise. The second envelope said otherwise.
She closed her eyes, pressing her forehead to the cool glass. She could almost hear Cynthia's laugh again — teasing her for getting tangled up in David's shadows. You always loved broken things, Glo. Maybe that was true. Maybe that's why Manny had picked her. Because she'd believe him when no one else would.
Behind her, she heard David's footsteps in the hall. He stopped in the doorway. Didn't come closer.
"I called Bello again," he said, voice flat. "He's trying to track Manny's last number. It bounced off a tower in the old industrial district. He says Manny might be holed up in one of those warehouses."
Glory didn't turn around. "And then what? You go there? You fight him? You kill him?"
David was silent.
She opened her eyes and stared at their reflection in the dark window — him behind her, blurred, as if he might fade if she blinked too long.
"You're not that man, David," she said softly.
His voice cracked then. "Aren't I?"
She turned to face him. He looked like a man caught between drowning and setting himself on fire to stay warm.
"I'm going to talk to him," Glory said.
David's eyes snapped up. "No."
"Yes."
"No." His voice sharpened, a note of fear threading through it. "You don't get to put yourself in his sights again. I'll handle it."
"You can't handle it," she shot back. "You couldn't handle Cynthia. You can't handle me. This is bigger than you — bigger than your pride."
He stepped forward, hands out like he might shake sense into her or pull her close, he hadn't decided yet. "Don't do this."
She held her ground. "Then tell me the truth. All of it. What did she know that I don't?"
Silence. Just the rain and the clock.
When he didn't answer, she brushed past him. His fingers caught her wrist, but she pulled free, and this time, he let her go.
Upstairs, she changed into jeans and an old coat she hadn't worn since Cynthia's funeral — the black one with the loose belt and deep pockets. She found her phone, half-charged, and slid it in her pocket with shaking hands.
She felt like she should leave a note. Something simple: I love you. I'm sorry. But she didn't. Words wouldn't fix this.
She heard David's footsteps downstairs — the slow pacing of a man realizing the cage door was open but he was too tired to run after what was escaping.
She slipped out the back door, hoodie pulled up, rain misting her hair. The old gate at the side yard squealed when she pushed through it. She half-expected David's voice behind her — Glory, don't. But the only sound was the wind, the hiss of cars in the distance.
She walked fast, then faster, until the street swallowed her up.
The bus station looked like every other forgotten corner of this city — half-lit, puddles swallowing the yellow glow of streetlamps. She paid cash for a ride that would take her three stops toward the industrial edge. She didn't know if Manny would be there. But she knew where he liked to haunt when he needed to remind people he still had claws.
Her phone buzzed once — David's name. She let it ring out.
When the bus shuddered away from the curb, she watched her house disappear behind rain-fogged glass. She almost expected to see Cynthia in the window — hand lifted in a sad little wave. Goodbye or good luck. Or both.
She got off near an old steelworks plant that had been shuttered since the year Cynthia died. She pulled her coat tighter around her as she crossed the cracked asphalt lot, the wind tugging at her hair like cold fingers.
There was a flicker of light ahead — an old service door half-open, a dull yellow bulb spilling just enough glow to catch the edges of rusted metal and oil stains.
She slipped inside.
The warehouse smelled like mildew and old regrets. Drips echoed somewhere in the dark. She stepped carefully, her boots crunching over broken glass.
A shape peeled itself out of the shadows near an old pillar — Manny. He looked thinner than she remembered. Greasy hair tucked behind his ears, an old army jacket two sizes too big. His smile was still the same — the grin of a man who knew exactly how far he could push you before you broke.
"Glory, glory," he sang softly. "God's favorite girl."
She stopped five feet away, arms crossed tight. "What do you want?"
Manny spread his arms, mock hurt. "I wanted to see you. Catch up. You've been busy, I hear. Playing house with your dead friend's husband."
Glory flinched. "What do you want, Manny?"
He dropped the grin, eyes narrowing. "The truth. Same as you."
He pulled something from his pocket — another photo. He held it out but didn't step closer. "You think you know what happened to Cynthia?"
Glory didn't move. "She died. She—"
Manny barked out a laugh that bounced off the rusted beams. "She didn't just die, Glory. She left something behind. Something David doesn't want you to find."
Glory's breath caught. "What is it?"
He stepped closer now, the photo hanging between them like bait. "A key. A story. A little piece of heaven for a price."
She wanted to back away. She didn't.
Manny tilted his head, studying her like she was a puzzle he couldn't wait to smash open. "Why'd you come alone, huh? Lover boy didn't tag along this time?"
Glory's voice shook. "David doesn't know."
Manny snorted. "David knows everything. He just pretends not to. Makes it easier to sleep at night."
She stepped forward. Close enough to smell the stale sweat, the cigarettes clinging to his jacket. "What do you want for it, Manny?"
His grin returned, meaner this time. "I want what's mine."
He pressed the photo into her palm — cold, damp. She didn't look at it yet.
"You bring me fifty grand, tomorrow. Or I bury this story so deep, nobody ever digs it up again."
Glory's eyes narrowed. "And if I say no?"
Manny leaned in, so close she could see the red veins in his eyes. "Then I tell the whole city what your perfect husband did. What you helped him hide."
He stepped back, slipping into the shadows again. "Tomorrow, sweetheart. Don't be late."
She stood there after he was gone — the warehouse echoing with her heartbeat. She unfolded the photo.
It was Cynthia again — but not alone. Cynthia, standing by her car, talking to someone half-hidden behind a tree. The shape looked familiar — tall, broad shoulders. It could be anyone. It could be David.
Or it could be her.
The warehouse lights flickered once, twice, then died.
Glory slipped the photo into her coat pocket and ran.
Back at the house, David was waiting by the front door when she stumbled up the steps, drenched from the rain that had turned from mist to a full downpour.
He didn't shout. He didn't ask where she'd been. He just opened the door and stepped aside, his eyes dark and stormy.
She pushed past him, dripping water onto the foyer floor.
When she turned, he was holding out her phone — the missed calls, the frantic texts. His hand shook.
"What did he say?" David asked, voice raw.
Glory pressed the photo into his chest. "Fifty thousand. Or he buries us both."
David looked at the photo. His eyes widened — just for a second — before he slammed them shut.
Glory's voice was a whisper. "Tell me what you're hiding, David."
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
Then — a single word. Soft. Terrified.
"Run."