Now her hair was thinning at the temples, and the faint gold paint on her fake earrings had flaked off onto her collar.

A heavy feeling settled in my chest, dull and quiet, like turning up an old rusted hammer buried under the workshop floorboards.

“I’m not calling the sheriff on you,” I said.

She let her hands fall from her face, her shoulders dropping as she let out a long breath.

“Thank you, Daniel,” she said.

“I can sleep on the bench out in the woodshop if you don’t want me in the house near Lily.”

“You’re not sleeping in the workshop,” I said.