Julian’s keyboards clicked and clacked like brittle bones in the silence. The blue glow from his monitors painted the room in pale, sleepless light. Vince sat in the corner, working the action of his pistol over and over like the steady tick of a clock, chambering and unchambering rounds without firing a shot.
Jerry was there too, hunched against the wall, breathing careful through his bandaged ribs. He hadn’t said much since walking in, not even when Pat offered coffee. He’d taken the cup with a curt nod, muttered a quiet “thanks,” and that was it.
And Pat—Pat felt the weight of every glance, the pause in every sentence when she entered the room.
Words weren’t needed—she could feel the doubt pressing in. She was the problem now.
Capol didn’t speak either. He hadn’t, not really, since
