Chapter 12 He hung up, yanked at his collar, and told himself the sour feeling was simple: Angela was being unreasonable and making a mess. But life began to snag and fray in a hundred small ways. At dawn, no warm breakfast smell drew him out of sleep. The kitchen was dead cold; the fridge was bare. He'd grown used to a bowl of oatmeal or a light chicken-noodle soup waiting for him. He settled for a glass of cold milk. His stomach complained. Before work, he reached for a crisp uniform. Yesterday's jacket still slumped, wrinkled, over a chair. He frowned, set up the iron, and scorched the collar with too much heat. He stared at the burn, jaw tight, and changed into an older uniform, angrier than before. After a long day, he pushed the door open to a wall of dark and a house that didn't care he was home. No light. No scent of food. Just air, empty and cold. He boiled water for instant noodles. The spill on his hand stung. The noodles glued themselves to the bottom of the bowl, tasted like paste, and his stomach twinged again. He set the fork down hard. No matter how late he'd come back, there had always been a small pot of soup keeping warm or a couple of clean, simple dishes. She would say, quietly, "Your stomach is touchy. Don't skip." All the care he'd found overbearing or ordinary-gone now-and only then did he feel the lack. Elaine moved in "to help with your arm," as she called it. She tied on an apron and banged around the kitchen, shattering a plate, burning vegetables to carbon. She tried the laundry and bled dye into a dress shirt; the iron nearly ruined a second jacket. She carried out the carnage with big, innocent eyes, hovered, tried to knead the ache from his shoulders. He flinched away without thinking. Her perfume was harsh. The softening of her voice rang false. Her care felt forced and-cheap. He realized, with a jolt, that he didn't want her food. He didn't want her fussing. It didn't calm him. It cornered him with problems he hadn't had before. He found himself missing that... quiet, exact care. Angela had known his habits and preferences without asking, kept everything orderly so he never had to look over his shoulder. She'd been like air-unnoticed until it was gone, and then he couldn't seem to breathe. The comparison crept in without noise, like the first thin trickle of meltwater under a sheet of spring ice, thawing a corner of a glacier that had sat inside him for ten years. Days passed. His men returned with news that made his face go even darker. "Captain, we traced her. She bought an Amtrak ticket north-destination is a remote logging town up in the northern Rockies. Our people made it out there and asked around. It's a big area, and there are few records Chapter 12 52.17% on newcomers. For now, we don't have an exact address." Florence Florence is a passionate reader who finds joy in long drives on rainy days. She's also a fan of Italian makeup tutorials, blending beauty and elegance into her everyday life.