Dalton
I coat my brush in paint and dab it gently against the wall in the cigar room. With each stroke, the wallpaper is coming back to life. Sunlight drifts through the windows, highlighting the dust my movements disturb with each flick of my wrist.
It’s nearly 2:00 in the afternoon. I’ve been fighting the urge to storm into Layla’s room and wake her up, demanding answers.
Something happened to her last night. The look on her face and hurt behind her eyes sets my soul on fire every time I think about our encounter in the hallway early this morning.
Something happened, and whoever did it… they made her think it was me.
I clutch the brush so tightly it snaps.
“Fuck.” I growl, tossing the pieces onto the plastic at my feet. I rest my hand against the wall, then press my forehead t
