Caz
The moment I stepped inside the Half Moon Packhouse, I knew something was wrong.
The air was stale—like the windows hadn’t been opened in days. A glass sat tipped over on the table, dark red wine dried in a pool beneath it. The TV blared static from the living room. And Gavin?
Gavin sat in the center of it all.
Perfectly still.
His eyes were fixed on the fireplace, though there were no flames inside it—just ash. He didn’t look up when I entered, didn’t blink.
“Gavin,” I said cautiously.
He smiled.
And that smile unsettled me more than anything else could have.
“You finally came,” he said, still staring forward. “Did she send you?”
“No,” I said, stepping closer. “She doesn’t know I’m here.”
He finally turned his head, slowly, like his body had forgotten how to move. “Then why
