The knock on Davon’s door was soft, almost hesitant, but it pulled him from a sleep that hadn’t felt like rest. He had been dreaming of water, pink water, a claw-foot tub, a face beneath the surface that kept changing. Cassey. Finch. Silas. His own reflection.
He sat up slowly, his body aching, his mouth dry. The knock came again.
He pulled on a pair of black sweatpants and walked to the door, his bare feet cold on the tiles. He opened it without checking the peephole.
Claire stood in the hallway. She was already dressed—dark jeans, a black sweater, her leather jacket. Her hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, and there were fresh shadows under her eyes. In her hand, she held two paper cups of coffee.
“You look like hell,” she said.
“You look like you haven’t slept.”
“I haven’t.”
