Summer didn’t say anything for a long moment, just looked at him, mouth pressed into a thin line. Her eyes seemed to fall out of focus for a moment. A queer emptiness was in her voice when she spoke. “You loved him, and you feared him, and you had no idea how to get out. And now you aren’t even sure you deserve what you have, because it’s so different.”
Isaac bit his lip before nodding slowly. “Yeah,” he mumbled quietly. “He’s dead now. I’m torn between feeling guilty and relieved most of the time,” he said, shrugging and looking out the window, leaning against the wall and clearing his throat. “But I’m not here for you to learn about me. What do you want me doing?”
She shook herself, muttering, “Sorry.” More briskly, she strode over to the bookcases that functioned equally as walls in the studio apartment, and picked up a small, round container, smaller than the palm of her hand. She held it out to him. “I need to find out what this is. Someone’s been putting it on my windowsills at night, and I don’t recognise it.”