BONUS SCENE
Clara
Three months later, Malcolm loses an argument with my toaster.
The toaster wins.
A piece of bread launches halfway out, catches on the lip, and smokes with the confidence of a small appliance that has chosen violence.
Malcolm stands in front of it wearing dark sweatpants, a soft gray T-shirt, and the expression of a man who has handled extortion threats, hostile witnesses, locked doors, and a corrupt studio empire, but did not expect wheat to betray him.
I lean against the counter and drink coffee.
“Need backup?” I ask.
He looks at the toaster.
Then at me.
“No.”
“Strong answer. Incorrect, but strong.”
“It’s bread.”
“It’s smoking bread.”
“It’s contained.”
The smoke alarm gives one offended beep.
I lift an eyebrow.
Malcolm reaches for the toaster plug with his left hand because the right still has faint healing marks across the palm. The burn has mostly faded. Not gone. His shoulder is better too, though bad weather and bad stairs make him quiet in a way I pretend not to notice.
He unplugs the toaster.
The smoke alarm stops after one more theatrical chirp.
He extracts the toast with tongs.
It is black around the edges and pale in the center, which feels personal.
“Modern art,” I say.
“Breakfast.”
“Same funding model.”
He puts the toast on a plate, considers it, then throws it away.
Growth.
I mark it internally and do not say that out loud because he is already living under enough supervised improvement.
The apartment smells like burnt bread, coffee, and the lemon cleaner Molly bought after declaring my old one “too emotionally gray.” Sunlight pushes through the kitchen window and lands on the chipped table where I now allow three mismatched mugs to sit without aligning them. Usually.
Today, one is crooked.
I notice.
I leave it.
Malcolm notices me noticing.
He says nothing.
Better man.
Still annoying.
On the table, the morning paper sits folded to an article about Red Vale’s criminal inquiry, Victor’s next hearing, and the studio’s attempt to distance itself from every decision it ever profited from.
Laurel’s name appears in the headline. Avery’s too.
Mine appears lower, which is progress I did not know I wanted.
The article does not call me unstable.
It does not call me difficult.
It calls me a witness.
Some days, language is allowed to be small and still feel enormous.
Malcolm brings me a second piece of toast, this one edible, and sets it beside my coffee.
“I didn’t ask.”
“I know.”
“That’s suspiciously thoughtful.”
“I’m practicing.”
“On toast?”
“Low-risk medium.”
I take a bite.
It is buttered badly, heavier on one side. I eat the uneven corner first.
He watches me with the careful attention of a man trying to learn the difference between caring and monitoring.
“You’re doing the face,” I say.
“What face?”
“The one where you want to ask if I’m okay but also want to remain alive.”
He looks down at his coffee. “I was going to ask whether the toast needed more butter.”
“Coward.”
“Yes.”
No defense.
That still gets me sometimes.
The easy surrender to small truths. The refusal to turn every exchange into a locked room. It makes my chest feel crowded in ways I handle with sarcasm and very specific household complaints.
The doorbell rings.
We both look toward the hall.
He does not move first.
That also gets me.
Three months ago, he would have reached the door before my body finished registering sound. Now he looks at me and waits.
“My apartment,” I say.
“Your door.”
“Your toast crime scene.”
“Shared responsibility.”
“Don’t get ambitious.”
I open the door.
Avery Lorne stands in the hallway holding a paper bag from Marla’s and wearing sunglasses too large for her face. Diana stands behind her with two coffees and a scarf so dramatic it may require its own union representation.
Avery lifts the bag. “We brought pie.”
I stare at it.
“No.”
“Cherry,” Diana says.
“No with history.”
“Marla said you’d say that.”
Avery steps inside without waiting, which is rude and healthy and makes me like her more. “She also said the pie is better now.”
“That is statistically unlikely.”
Malcolm appears behind me.
Diana points at him. “Security Batman. You look less dead.”
“Thank you.”
“I didn’t mean it warmly.”
“I received it correctly.”
Avery sets the bag on the table and glances at the crooked mug. Her eyebrows lift.
I point at her. “Do not comment.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You inhaled.”
“I have lungs.”
Diana sits, unwraps the pie, and immediately makes a face. “Marla lied.”
Avery takes a fork from the drawer without asking. “It’s not bad.”
“You were kidnapped, sweetheart. Your standards are rebuilding.”
Avery points the fork at her. “Your bedside manner remains insulting.”
“Thank you.”
Malcolm takes plates from the cabinet. He knows where they are now. That used to scare me. Now it only scares me every other Tuesday.
He places one in front of me and does not touch my chair.
I sit.
He sits beside me.
Not too close.
Close enough.
The four of us eat terrible pie at my chipped table while sunlight moves across the floor.
We talk about Avery’s new role in a small indie that has no red doors.
Diana’s lawsuit against Red Vale that she insists is “spiritual cardio.” Molly’s plan to make a podcast called The Edit Was the Crime, which Gideon hates so much he has accidentally become its legal advisor.
For twenty minutes, nobody says Laurel’s name.
Then Avery does.
Softly, with her fork halfway through a piece of crust.
“I think she would hate this pie.”
The room changes.
Not breaks.
Changes.
I look at the red filling on my plate. Too glossy. Too sweet. Too alive for something so artificial.
“She did,” I say.
Malcolm’s hand rests on the table near mine.
Not touching.
Waiting.
I move first.
My fingers find his.
Diana looks away with aggressive discretion.
Avery smiles into her fork and pretends not to.
The toast smell is gone now. Coffee, pie, lemon cleaner, and Sunday air have replaced it.
No cameras.
No tape.
No one saying cut.
A bad pie. A crooked mug. A man who waits. Two women alive at my table.
The scene does not need to be perfect.
It only needs to be mine.