By 11:30 a.m., the penthouse held its breath.
Adrian had turned the study into a quiet command post: two monitors mirrored his laptop; a legal pad sat open with a timeline he’d drawn so straight it looked printed; an inbox of color-coded alerts ticked forward like a metronome. On the credenza, a single mug of coffee cooled, untouched. He’d been too busy to drink anxiety into compliance.
Trina stood at the window with her camera strap slung across her shoulder, the city bright and indifferent beneath her. Mya sat cross-legged on the couch with her phone face down, a gentle reminder to ignore the bait. Keith leaned in the kitchen doorway, arms folded, playing perimeter without making it a performance.
At 11:57, Cameron’s name flashed on Trina’s screen with a video: his face half in frame
