The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 395

She pulled her gaze away and kept walking.

Garrison pushed open the door at the end of the hall and flicked on the light.

The study was small but impeccably tidy.

Against the wall sat a single bed, covered in gray-and-white striped sheets, the blanket folded into perfect squares.

Opposite the bed was a desk cluttered with medical journals and a pen holder. Next to it thrived a lush, gorgeous pothos plant, its vibrant green vines cascading gracefully down the edge of the bookshelf under the warm light.

The books were meticulously categorized. The vast majority were heavy medical texts, but the bottom shelf held a neatly aligned row of sheet music and music theory books, their spines embossed with gold cello motifs.

Sloane's eyes lingered on those books for a fraction of a second.

"The sheets are fresh." Garrison pulled a fleece blanket from the closet and laid it at the foot of the bed. "The bathroom is on the left in the hall. The hot water is on. I'm going to take a shower."

With that, he stepped out, leaving the door slightly ajar.

Half a minute later, the bathroom door clicked shut at the end of the hall, followed by the steady hiss of the shower.

Sloane propped her cello gently against the desk and sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress was the perfect balance of firm and soft, and the sheets smelled faintly of fresh laundry detergent. She slipped off her shoes, her bare feet pressing against the hardwood floor. It wasn't cold. Her gaze drifted from the pothos on the desk to the sheet music, eventually landing on the doorway.

That locked room.

What was inside? Things left behind by the ex-wife? Highly sensitive documents?

Whatever... she didn't care.

She pulled her legs under the covers as the rain tapped softly against the window glass, the sound growing lighter and more distant.

The shower turned off, and her heavy eyelids finally surrendered to sleep...

He reached up to open the overhead cabinet. His antacids were on the top shelf—a height he usually reached without a second thought. But tonight, as he stretched his arm up on his toes, the movement pulled harshly at his abdomen. He let out a muffled groan, collapsing over the counter.

He squeezed his eyes shut, breathing through the pain for several agonizing seconds before forcing himself to stand. Gritting his teeth, he grabbed the bottle, shook out two chalky white tablets, and threw them into his mouth.

He chewed them dry. The bitter, powdery taste coated the back of his throat, and he swallowed hard with a deep frown, his Adam's apple bobbing painfully.

There was an unwashed glass sitting on the counter with a tiny bit of stagnant water left at the bottom. He grabbed it, throwing back whatever old water was left to choke down the gritty residue of the pills...

Then, he turned off the kitchen lights and leaned against the wall, making his way back down the hall.

As he approached the study, his steps slowed.

The door hadn't been fully shut. Through a one-inch gap, the warm yellow glow of the bedside lamp spilled out, painting a thin line of light across the hallway floor.

He stopped outside, tilting his head slightly to peer through the narrow opening...