RONALD
I sat in my office, but my mind was nowhere near it. The monitor in front of me glared back with a spreadsheet I hadn’t touched in an hour. Empty lines, blinking cursor and nothing else. I used to have every square inch of Catherine’s house displayed on this same screen. Live feeds. Every angle, every room, like some kind of sick reassurance that she was safe… and mine. I was a fool.
I’d torn it all down two weeks ago. Along with what little sanity I had left, apparently.
February eighth.
Two weeks since she’d told me to f**k off. Two weeks since I’d heard her voice say anything that wasn’t clipped, professional, automated. She’d been cold in our virtual meetings, she had made sure to be punctual, precise, polite, not giving me a single teasing remark, the usual spark in her to
