When I wake up, the other side of the bed is cold. I pat the sheets blindly, still half-asleep, expecting to find Jillian’s familiar warmth. But my hand encounters nothing but rumpled cotton and the indent where her body used to be.
“Jill?” I croak, pushing myself up on one elbow.
I fumble for my phone on the nightstand. The screen tells me it’s 4:53 A.M., which is ungodly early by any reasonable standard, but especially by Jillian’s. That woman would sleep until noon if the world let her.
There’s a text waiting for me.
Had to run. Source finally agreed to meet. Will call later. Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone. xo Bean
It takes a while for my sleep-addled brain trying to parse whether “source” means something innocuous or something that should make me worried. Given everything
