VINCENT MOREAU
And I opened my eyes and woke up from the dream.
Perhaps it was a nightmare. It was one, in which I could not locate Eleanor Sinclair.
I shut my eyes and relived discovering her after she had run out of the house. It had at first felt eerily impossible, until I took a turn about not more than a block from the house, and there she was, standing beneath a faint streetlight like some old movie heroine.
My own foot stamped hard on the brake as my own head wrestled to believe it was her. Her black shining hair shone in the light, a welcome after the darkness that engulfed everything else, and I could even spot from way off the rigidity of her shoulders and the movement of her hands curling and uncurling at her sides. She was coming apart, and it was beautiful to see.
I pres
