The photograph sat on Rory's phone screen like a loaded weapon.
Lena was alive.
At least, she appeared alive.
She sat in a metal chair inside what looked like an abandoned warehouse. Her expression remained remarkably composed considering the circumstances. There were no visible injuries. No obvious signs of distress.
That detail bothered me more than panic would have.
Lena Brooks treated emotions the way surgeons treated unnecessary tissue. She removed them whenever possible.
If Victor Shaw had managed to frighten her, then the situation was worse than any of us understood.
I studied the image carefully.
Years of hockey had taught me how to read details under pressure.
The background. The shadows. The positioning.
Anything. Everything.
Rory stood beside me, staring at the scree
