Dorian had two more meetings scheduled for the day. He decided not to waste time while still in Richmond. The hours slipped away unnoticed, and at ten o’clock he finally returned to his hotel.
First, he showered. Then he ordered dinner. On his phone, a notification caught his eye—Clara had just posted something new on her blog. Anticipation surged through him as he opened the page.
“Anxiety,” he read the title.
“The audience is left with the sense that the story is about to end in a tragic finale.”
Dorian’s heart plummeted. He dialed her number immediately, even though it was nearly eleven for him and almost one a.m. for Clara. She didn’t pick up. In fact, her phone was off.
He called again. And again. Nothing. His pulse hammered. Something was wrong. He could feel it in his bones, in
