Before I can stand up, an icon in the upper right-hand corner of the screen catches my eye. A cloud. I'm not sure why I reach for the mouse and click. I'll never know why my curiosity prods me. But I lean down and I double tap the cloud, watching more icons flood the screen, along with pictures of various buildings. Construction sites.
There's a video at the very bottom.
Recognition hits me in the throat.
That's my apartment. My dollhouse studio.
When did he record a video inside of it?
I hit play.
It starts with Bryant setting up the phone in the corner of my bookshelf, guilt and conflict written in every line of his face—and my stomach drops to the ground. Oh God.
In the here and now, the office door opens.
Bryant walks in. He's breathing hard. There is a look of utter relief and
