He’d meant to start packing for the trip back to Baltimore, but the sight of his clothes hanging alone in the clothespress sent him reeling to the bed. He’d gotten used to having Vincent’s shirts beside his in the wardrobe above the shop. But all he would ever see again would be what he beheld in this moment: his own dull suits, unenlivened by Vincent’s presence. Just like every other part of his life now. There came a soft knock on the door. “Henry?” Jo called. Jo. God. He owed her an explanation. He’d betrayed her trust just as much as anyone’s. “Come in,” he said, even though a part of him would have preferred to hide beneath the bed and pretend he wasn’t there. She entered, but he kept his gaze fixed on his hands. It was easier than seeing the condemnation in her eyes. She stopped a few feet away, the hem of her yellow dress just at the edge of his vision. “I don’t understand,” she said uncertainly. “You always say to tell the truth. To be honest. So why did you lie to us about the Psychical Society?”
