Kelly
Thursday morning arrived with a cruel, crisp efficiency, cutting through the emotional fog of the last few days like a scalpel.
Kelly stood beside the gleaming chassis of the A-star helicopter, her clipboard tucked firmly beneath one arm, watching the early sunrise paint the Belmont Park heliport in raw, bleeding streaks of deep amber and molten gold.
The city had surrendered to November completely. The last golden leaves clung stubbornly to the skeletal branches of the distant trees, while a bitter, relentless wind funnelled between Manhattan’s concrete skyscrapers, carrying the biting, undeniable promise of a brutal winter.
The air carried a sharp chill, but it was nothing compared to the cold ache that had settled low inside her over the last seventy-two hours. Her skin felt
