MAXWELL’S POV
The digital clock on the microwave read 11:28 PM as I stood in the kitchen staring at the plate of lasagna revolving slowly inside. Having reheated it for the third time, the cheese was probably rubbery by now, and the pasta sauce had likely separated into a greasy mess, yet throwing it out felt impossible.
Andrea had said ten o'clock, prompting me to check my phone again, only to find no texts and no missed calls. The tracking app showed her location as "midtown," but the signal bouncing off the skyscrapers gave me a radius of five blocks rather than a specific building, making the entire situation utterly infuriating.
Leaning against the marble counter and running a hand through my hair, the reality was that waiting simply wasn't something I was used to. In my world, peo
