Against her better judgment, she followed them into the apartment, the feeling of dread settling in the pit of her stomach. She pressed backwards on the door, and it closed with a soft click. What could she tell them? There was nothing to look for, no clues to be found. He would disappear from her life again, just as he had eleven years ago. The only difference was that this time he wouldn't be leaving a hole in her heart. She had toughened considerably since then.
Her gaze roamed over her son, his son, whispered a tiny voice in her mind that she quickly shoved away, banishing the thought into nothingness. Shaking the words from her head, her gaze fell on the window, and her heart dropped like a stone in her chest.
Did you even care about me, at all, she had screamed at him, and he had let her, holding up his palms to defend himself against her accusations and bear the brunt of her rage. And later, his explanation had made her reckless. I loved you, she had shrieked, shattering the calm of the empty bar. That had wounded him. He had looked away from her, speaking into his nearly full glass, and she had cruelly reveled in her satisfaction.
But there it was. The secondhand dream catcher, hanging front and center on his window. She couldn't help herself. Three quick steps and she was at the window, reaching up to snatch it down from its post. Could she be mistaken? No. This was definitely it, with its faded yellow rawhide and decrepit webbing. She ran a finger through the spotted feathers at the bottom. He should have thrown it away. It was worthless, really, a forgotten piece of junk stolen from a hotel room. But he had kept it.
Could she have been wrong? Could he have been telling the truth? Had she ignored the pain in his eyes or strain in his voice or the way he had stumbled through his words? Had it all been an act? Could it have been? Because if it hadn't been, that frightened her most of all.