KILLIAN.
She was sitting exactly where Claude had said she would be — in the small east wing sitting room she had slowly claimed as her own. She had filled it with careful, hopeful touches: soft cushions, a few personal photos, the quiet attempts of a woman trying to turn something temporary into forever. Now she sat hunched in the chair by the window, head bowed, the burner phone gripped tightly in both hands. The emergency lighting drenched everything in a sick, bloody red.
She didn’t look up when I entered.
Claude lingered heavily in the doorway behind me. I could feel the crushing weight of him there — a brother fighting to hold himself together.
I crossed the room and sat down across from her.
“Michelle,” I said, my voice low and rough.
She finally raised her head.
Her face was
