Memories flooded Anita’s mind with each step through the empty rooms of her suburban LA beach front bungalow. The living room, once filled with cozy furniture and vibrant throw pillows, now echoed with the ghosts of laughter and late-night conversations. She remembered how Vance had carried her over the threshold on their wedding day, his eyes full of love and promise for their future together. The walls seemed to whisper stories of their life here—the way he teased her about her baking adventures that often set off the smoke alarms, evenings spent snuggled on the patio sofa watching the sunset colors dance across the waves, movie nights that ended in popcorn fights and retreats to the bedroom—leaving the movie unfinished.

In the kitchen, she traced her fingers on the white quartz counter tops where they had shared countless meals, planning their dreams and soothing worries, or so she had thought. The scent of sea salt lingered faintly in the air, a reminder of their walks along the shore, hand in hand. Stepping onto the small patio, she recalled the peaceful moments spent gazing at the ocean, the rhythmic sound of the waves a comforting backdrop to their quiet conversations. It had been their sanctuary, a place where the stresses of work melted away, and they found solace in each other's presence.

As she approached the bathroom off their bedroom, a shiver ran down her spine. It held the most chilling memory of all—the day she found him sprawled in the bathtub. Throughout her fifteen years as a nurse, she had never seen blood so red or porcelain so white, and she was sure she never would again.

The emptiness of the house now mirrored the void in her heart, a stark reminder of the fragility of happiness and the weight of unspoken pain. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply to steady herself, knowing that though the house was empty, it held within its walls the echoes of a love that had once filled every corner with warmth and hope. She tried, and failed miserably for the moment, to focus on it.

Anita zipped up her jacket against the winter ocean breeze as she stepped onto the front porch. The FOR SALE sign swayed gently, its message a knife to the heart. As she locked the door for what she intended to be the last time, a man in a sharp suit approached her from the sidewalk.

“Mrs. Miran?” he called out as he neared.

Anita turned, her eyes narrowing slightly at the stranger.

The man stopped a few feet away, holding out a business card as a gesture of peace. “My name is Thomas Reddick. I’m a private investigator looking for Vance Miran. I was hoping you could help me with his whereabouts.”

Anita’s heart skipped a beat at the mention of her late husband's name. Her voice was guarded, tinged with suspicion. “Why are you looking for him?” She stepped off the porch and walked down the short path to her car.

Thomas seemed prepared for the question as he followed her. “I represent a law firm in Harrowsburg, Connecticut. It appears Mr. Miran has inherited a significant property from his grandmother. We need to serve the details of the inheritance on him.”

Anita laughed, a short, humorless sound. “You’re a bit late, Mr. Reddick. Vance won’t be inheriting anything.”

The investigator’s brow furrowed. “I don’t understand.”

She shifted her gaze to the quiet street behind him, her voice harsh with resignation. “You can find him at the corner of Hawks Lane and Green View,” she said, flipping a hand towards the city.

Thomas nodded, tapping the information into his phone. “Thank you, Mrs. Miran.” He turned away and took a few steps as Anita moved around to her car’s driver’s side. She got in, slamming the door a little more forcefully than necessary. As she started the ignition, Thomas jogged up beside her window. She grit her teeth and punched the button to roll it down.

“Ma’am, that address is, um, a cemetery.”

“And?” Anita raised her eyebrows with an irritated look. “That is where you put dead people, isn’t it?”

“So, Vance Miran is dead?”

“As a door nail. For the past two months.”

The color drained from Thomas’ face as he processed the information. “I’m...I’m terribly sorry for your loss, Mrs. Miran. I had no idea.”

Anita watched his professional façade waver, a flicker of genuine sympathy crossing his features. “Thank you,” she said, though her voice carried little warmth. Anger and irritation shoved their way back to the forefront. “You’re not much of a private investigator, are you? A basic Internet search brings up his obituary.”

“I’m sure it does.” Thomas was unshaken by her insult. “It was only this morning that we tracked down the alias your husband was using.

“That’s ridiculous. Vance didn’t have an alias.” Above and beyond their seven-year marriage, Anita was all to aware of his vital records after submitting his birth certificate, social security card, and driver’s license to the funeral home for identification and the filing of his death certificate.

“I assure you, ma’am, he did. It’s all in here.” He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a thick manila envelope. “I think you’ll find that we’ve done a thorough background. We have the right man. And now, upon his death, the property would legally pass to you. You are now the beneficiary of the Harrow estate. Congratulations.”

Skepticism clouded Anita’s expression. “I don’t know anything about any property. Vance had no connection to Connecticut. This is probably some kind of scam, and I am in no mood—”

“—It’s not a scam,” Thomas insisted. “Here.” He handed her the envelope. “This contains all the legal papers, the last will and testament of the deceased, one Hyacinth Harrow, and the contact information for the lawyers handling the estate. When you reconsider, please give them a call.”

Anita took the envelope, her fingers brushing against the cold paper. “I’ll look into it,” she said noncommittally.

Thomas gave a small nod, stepping back. “Again, I’m sorry to have brought this up at such a difficult time.” He turned on his heel and made for the sidewalk.

Anita’s gaze lingered on what had been her home. The bungalow had been a place of love and laughter, of dreams and sometimes tears. Now, it was just another tie to sever, another piece of her old life to let go. She tossed the file onto the passenger seat and pulled away from the curb.

The Pacific Ocean glinted in the distance, a vast expanse of blue that seemed unending, shifting and roiling, just like her emotions. As Anita drove toward the bustling heart of the city, the rhythmic hum of the tires on the pavement did little to calm the storm raging within her. Her hands clenched the steering wheel, knuckles turning pale, as a wave of feelings surged through her. She had always relied on driving as a form of escape, a method to clear her cluttered thoughts. But today, the drive served as a harsh reminder of her current turmoil and an unwanted opportunity to confront the deep-seated anger and grief that had festered in the wake of Vance’s suicide.

Death had struck like a bolt from the blue, shattering her world into fragments of disbelief and sorrow, just as the bullet had shattered his skull into unrecognizable pieces. In the raw weeks that followed, the initial numbness thawed into a profound emptiness, punctuated by relentless unanswerable questions. She replayed their last conversations, scouring for missed cues or signs of the invisible battle Vance must have fought alone. This persistent script highlighted her own perceived failures, intensifying the guilt that gnawed at her.

Driving in the city, the illuminated skyline blurred before her, distorted by tears that threatened to spill. She tried to blink them back, focusing on the road, each mile a painful roll through the landscape of her grief. She felt betrayed by Vance for leaving her so abruptly, for not seeking her help, for not giving her a chance to alter the ending of their shared story. This resentment towards him was tangled with a furious self-reproach and an overarching anger at the cosmic injustice of it all. Seven years to an abrupt end.

Her thoughts shifted to the unexpected inheritance of some ridiculous property all the way across the country. A fresh wave of anger ignited. It was just an unwanted reminder of the secrets Vance must have kept from her. The bundle of legal documents on the passenger seat felt like a manifestation of his betrayal.

By the time she reached the dense city center and found a spot in the parking garage near her best friend’s apartment, resolve hardened within her. The documents would remain unopened; no calls to any Connecticut lawyer would be placed. Anita’s path forward would not include delving into the shadows of Vance’s unknown past. She sought closure, not through exploration and acceptance, but through severance and distance.

She would move forward alone. With her gaze set firmly on the horizon of her new beginning. Unanchored by the past.

***

Anita sat in a corner booth at Exiles. It was a place Vance had despised—a sanctuary where memories of him shouldn’t intrude. The thumping bass of techno music reverberated through the brick walls, adorned with blue and green paint splatters, and made the amber star-burst lights above tremble. She sipped her gin and tonic with lime, trying to lose herself in the pulsing rhythm of the music and the vibrant atmosphere.

“Anita, there you are!” Doreen's voice cut through the din as she slid into the booth. Her best friend was a whirlwind of energy, her bright red hair a stark contrast against the dimly lit bar. “I can't believe you're here on a Friday night, amidst all this chaos!”

Anita managed a faint smile, glad for Doreen's irrepressible spirit. “Sometimes chaos is exactly what I need.”

Doreen eyed her friend with concern. Anita shifted uncomfortably, all too aware of the circles under her eyes, and the lines that had so recently popped up on once smooth skin.

“How have you been holding up, darling? It's been tough, I know.”

Anita nodded, swirling her drink absently. “Yeah, it hasn’t been a picnic.”

“Is it done?”

“Yep. All the furniture is being sold on consignment, and the house is in the hands of the realtor now.”

“Then let’s celebrate!” Doreen’s phone buzzed as an area code 959 number flashed across the screen. She grabbed it off the table. “Oh,” she said. “I’ve got to take this. I’ll be right back.”

Doreen shimmied away through the crowd. After a few minutes of watching the lights swirl and couples dance, Anita decided she needed to use the restroom. As she pushed through the door, she was surprised to find Doreen on the phone in front of the mirror. “—I’ll take care of it, Vanessa. Don’t worry…Yes, I—” She spotted Anita heading to a stall. “Look, I’m not on call tonight. Bother someone else.” Doreen hung up and mouthed “Sorry” to Anita. Doreen pointed out back out toward the floor.

Anita nodded. As she used the bathroom, she worried about her friend. Doreen was a recovered drug addict. She made an amazing nurse and friend because she understood pain so deeply. Anita wondered if she had been thinking too much of herself lately. She resolved to do better.

When Anita slid back into their booth, she found two more of each of their drinks waiting for her. “So, what exactly are we supposed to be celebrating?”

“The last week of your bereavement leave, and to your oh-so-comfortable spot on my sofa for the foreseeable future!”

Anita laughed despite herself. “You will find a way to celebrate anything.”

“Damn right!”

“Okay, but how about to our friendship as well, and to you, the best damn floor nurse in all of LA.”

Doreen grinned.

“I mean it Doreen. You’d tell me if I could help with anything right? I know I’ve been caught up in everything with Vance, but we still need to take care of each other, and that means helping you out too.”

“I know you’ve got my back, girl.”

And as they raised their glasses amidst the pulsating music and the splattered walls of Exiles, Anita felt a flicker of excitement ignite within her—a flicker of hope for a future where all the doors to the past were shut and locked and those to the future all opened up as planned.

***

Anita and Doreen had spent the night dancing away their cares in the vibrant heart of downtown LA. The pulsing music beat had merged with the rhythm of their laughter, creating a temporary bubble that grief and reality couldn’t pop. As they stumbled out of the club in the early morning hours, arms linked and hearts light, the city seemed to wrap around them in a warm embrace.

The rideshare to Doreen’s apartment was filled with giggles and nonsensical conversation, the type that only made perfect sense to those involved. They leaned on each other, literally and metaphorically, as they navigated the steep stairwell of Doreen’s sleeping building. By the time they reached the apartment, the sky was beginning to lighten, painting the smoggy horizon in shades of pink and orange.

Doreen collapsed onto her bed, barely managing to kick off her shoes, while Anita made an even less graceful descent onto the sofa. Exhaustion quickly took hold, and she was asleep within moments, the cushions enveloping her in the scratchy embrace of wool blend.

Anita woke with the sun streaming through the windows, casting harsh lines across her face. Her head was pounding—a fierce reminder of the night’s careless celebrations—and the sight that greeted her did nothing to ease her irritation. Doreen was sitting at the kitchen table, completely engrossed in the contents of the manila envelope from the investigator. A pile of papers spread across the tabletop like some sort of treasure map.

“What the hell, Doreen?” Anita grumbled, pushing herself up into a sitting position, her voice thick with frustration and hangover. “Why did you open that? I meant to throw it away.” She eased herself back down to the sofa as her head spun.

Doreen looked up, her expression one of earnest excitement undimmed by Anita's tone. “Anita, you’ve got to see this. It’s gorgeous. Look at this photo,” she insisted, rushing over to the sofa with an 8x10 and shoving it in her friend’s face.

Anita glanced at the photograph only briefly, her eyes hardening as they took in the image of the sprawling estate. “I don’t care how pretty it is,” she snapped, her anger flaring up. “It’s just Vance dumping his unresolved crap on me from beyond the grave.” She grabbed the photo and flung it like a frisbee across the living room.

Doreen didn’t flinch at Anita’s harsh words. “Anita, come on. This could be something good—a new start. It says right here that if the heir apparent—ooh, so official—is unable to take possession, the inheritance moves to the surviving spouse. Maybe it’s a chance for you to—”

“—Don’t,” Anita cut her off sharply. “Don’t make this into some kind of sentimental journey where I find myself in the ruins of Vance’s secrets. He’s gone, Doreen. He chose to leave. Now I’m supposed to uproot my life because some obscure relative of his kicked the bucket in Connecticut? I’m already uprooting things, selling my ocean-side bungalow—that I bought before I even met him—to pay for his funeral and debts.”

Doreen’s voice softened, trying to pierce the armor of Anita’s resentment. “You couldn’t go back there even if you didn’t have bills to pay,” she said softly, leaving the elephant in the room unnamed. Anita rolled over on the sofa to face the back cushions, refusing to think about the scene in the bathroom.

“Even his name—” Anita threw a punch against the couch back. “The investigator said he was going by an alias! WTF?”

“Yes, it’s all here.” Doreen dug in the pile of documents. “People change their names all the time, hon.”

Anita growled and paused for a moment before asking the question on her mind. “So, who the hell was he really?”

Doreen understood her query despite the muffling of her voice against the sofa. “Victor Clifton Harrow. Ew. I would have changed it, too.”

Anita rolled back over. “Why is all this coming out now? Why didn’t he tell me about his rich grandmother? Why didn’t he tell me about anything?”

“I know you’re hurt but think about it, ’Nita. You could sell the property, at least, and if you want to come back here and buy a different house, you’d definitely have enough. It could be a huge opportunity for you. And who knows, maybe you’ll even like it there. Connecticut needs good nurses, too.”

Anita sighed heavily, a mix of exhaustion and irritation lingering in her voice. “I have a job I love here, Doreen. I have a life here. Why would I leave that for some guilt-ridden inheritance and some snooty East Coast city? It’s probably snowing there! Why would Vance do this to me?”

Doreen came over and sat down on the coffee table, laying her hand on Anita’s elbow. “Maybe it’s not about what he did anymore, Anita. Maybe it’s about what you can do for yourself now. Give it a chance, for your own sake. Go see it. If you hate it, fine. Sell it. Come back. My sofa is always open. But what if it’s a chance for something better?” Doreen held her other hand over Anita, and an antique brass key on a lavender ribbon slipped from her palm, swinging like a pendulum. Anita turned away.

The room fell silent except for the faint ticking of the kitchen clock. Anita side-eyed the document spread and key Doreen had tossed on the coffee table, her mind racing with conflicting emotions. Doreen moved around the apartment, getting ready for her shift at the hospital, giving her friend space. Finally, Anita’s shoulders slumped under the weight of unresolved grief and a future she had never asked for, and she let the hangover spin her back to sleep on the scratchy sofa.