Grady was finishing a story about some disastrous residency prank, laughing softly at his own retelling, and I forced myself to smile. Or something close to it. The food was excellent, the conversation pleasant, but the restaurant still felt… wrong. Too quiet in some corners, too loud in others. Like the entire room had been rearranged after Ahmir disappeared.
The empty space where he'd stood stayed carved into my awareness like someone had removed a piece of the architecture. I lifted the wine glass to my lips, trying to steady my breathing. The stem felt fragile in my fingers, delicate the way my nerves felt right now.
“So,” Grady said as our plates were cleared, folding his napkin neatly, “would you like to get dessert? They make an excellent apple tart here.”
Before I could answer,
