The rain-slick road hummed under the tires, a low, steady sound that matched the quiet storm in Richard’s head. His hands rested lightly on the wheel, but there was nothing relaxed in the set of his jaw. Streetlights strobed across the windshield, lighting his profile in sharp slices before plunging it back into shadow—like a reel of half-forgotten memories playing in fragments.
Had he rushed things with Annabelle?
That kiss… the sudden press of her warmth against him… it had happened so fast he hadn’t given himself the chance to ask why. And now, with the drive stretching ahead, questions circled him like vultures, picking at the edges of his certainty.
Since he was young, Britney’s voice had been a constant—smooth, cold, and unyielding—whispering and repeating the same truth: Annabell
