My phone buzzed on the desk.
Candace.
“Em…” Her voice was raw. “He did it again.”
The room narrowed. Sound fell away, leaving only the rush of blood in my ears.
Not again. I knew that tone. Those words.
“What happened?”
“I found messages. Pictures.” She drew a breath that broke halfway through. “Three women. Maybe more. I wasn’t even looking—my phone died, I used his to order food and they were just… there.”
My hand pressed flat against my chest.
“Oh, Candace. I’m so sorry.”
“I’m such an idiot.”
“You’re not an idiot.” I tucked the phone between my ear and shoulder, shutting down my computer, grabbing my purse and keys. The lights died behind me as I moved. “You’re not.”
“Do you think he’s… sick?” Her voice barely carried the word.
I stopped.
Neither of us spoke.
The empty floor stretched ahead—dark offices, abandoned desks, silence thick enough to feel deliberate. My employees had lives waiting for them. Families. Dinners eaten at tables instead of standing over sinks. I didn’t begrudge them that.
Most nights.
“I don’t know what to do,” Candace said. Her voice wavered.
“Nothing tonight,” I said. “Just breathe.”
“I can’t stay here. Everything smells like him.”
“Pack a bag and stay with me tonight. I’m sending a car.”
A pause. Then, softer: “Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
Minutes later, the back seat of Harold’s car closed around me.
Traffic crawled. Horns argued. Red lights smeared across the windshield.
Somewhere ahead, a siren wailed.
The familiar chorus pressed in, relentless. No amount of pressure against my temples quieted it.
When my building finally rose out of the tangle of streetlights, my hand was already on the door handle.
“Ms. Sinclair—” the doorman began.
“I’ve got it,” I said, already moving.
The elevator button absorbed my impatience, stabbed again and again as if urgency could coax the machinery faster. A faint ding. The cab arrived, carrying the faint scent of lemon cleaner and old perfume.
