Adrian.
I couldn't sleep.
The Chicago penthouse was silent except for the hum of traffic forty floors below—a sound that used to comfort me, remind me I was on top of the world. Now it just reminded me how far I'd fallen.
Two months. Sixty-three days. One thousand, five hundred and twelve hours since Scarlett had jumped into the Thames.
Since I'd thought I killed her.
I stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows, scotch in hand, staring at Lake Michigan stretching black and infinite under the night sky. The same view I'd had the morning after Valentine's Day. The morning I'd called what we did a mistake.
The morning I'd destroyed everything.
My phone sat on the desk behind me, screen dark. I'd been staring at it for three hours, working up the courage to make a call I should have made we
