What He Left Behind
The rain had followed her all the way from the airport, tapping an impatient rhythm against the cab window as the city blurred past in smears of amber light. Emma Collins pressed her forehead to the cool glass and let herself smile for the first time in three exhausting days. The conference in Chicago had gone better than she'd dared to hope—two new client contracts secured, a promotion practically promised by her supervisor over drinks at the hotel bar—and she'd cut her trip short by a full day just so she could surprise Ryan. She'd pictured it a dozen times on the flight home: his face lighting up when he opened the door, the way he'd pull her into the apartment and ask why she hadn't called ahead, and she'd say *because I couldn't wait*.
She paid the driver, dragged her suitcase up the three flights of stairs because the elevator had been broken since spring, and fumbled her key into the lock with fingers still cold from the rain.
The apartment was dark except for the blue glow spilling from the kitchen, where Ryan's laptop sat open on the counter, screen alive, humming faintly like it was waiting for someone. Emma set her suitcase down by the door and unwound her scarf,…
