Elara
The car doesn’t leave. That’s what makes it worse. If Marcus had driven off, disappeared back into the shadows, I could have convinced myself it was temporary — a moment, a spike, something that would pass. But it doesn’t pass. It lingers, like him. We stand at the window longer than we should, watching the black sedan idle under the dim streetlight, rain sliding over the windshield in distorted streaks. Adrian doesn’t move. His body is still, but I can feel the tension radiating off him — controlled, contained, but barely.
“He wants us to see him.”
“Yes.”
“He knows you’re here.”
“Yes.”
The certainty in his voice makes my stomach tighten.
“That doesn’t bother you?”
“It changes the approach.”
I tear my eyes away from the car and look at him, trying to read what he isn’t sayin
