James Sinclair
The air inside Karen’s house had grown colder, though the temperature hadn’t changed. It wasn’t just the place—it was her. Or rather, the absence of her.
My jaw ached from how tightly I clenched it, and my fingers curled into fists at my sides. She wasn’t here. The maid’s words echoed in my mind, hollow and infuriating. She left about an hour ago. She didn’t say where she was going or when she’d be back.
Typical Karen. Always leaving things unfinished, always one step ahead, orchestrating the chaos she claimed to despise. And now, I was standing here like a fool, the tension in my chest threatening to crush me.
I exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through my hair as the maid excused herself. The sound of her retreating footsteps barely registered.
“What the hell are you
