Damien
I went looking for her because something felt off a small thread of wrong that’s hard to ignore once it’s there. The guest room was empty when I pushed the door. Her blanket lay twisted where she’d been. A cup on the bedside table was cold. The unease pulled at me, slow and steady, and I moved through the rooms until I reached the study.
Before I opened the door I heard it a small, soft noise, like someone breathing too loud, moving around the drawers and then the sharper sound of a thumb moving over a screen. I froze for a second, because I hate surprises in my house. Whoever was in there ought to have knocked. Whoever it was had already crossed a line.
I stepped inside.
She was in the corner by the desk, phone cupped between both hands, the screen bright against her face. Her
