Get the drive. Make it to the gala. Forty-eight hours. Please, let me get out this time.
The mantra beat against my skull in time with my pulse, a rhythmic drum echoing the frantic pace of my heart. I stood in the kitchen, the air thick with the aromatic, expensive scent of saffron and slow-simmered seafood. My hands were steady—a miracle, considering the tremors that felt like they were vibrating deep in my marrow—as I finished the bouillabaisse. The rich, briny steam rose in curls, but my mind was miles away, mapping the floor plan of Jason’s study with the precision of a tactical strike. I knew exactly where the shadows pooled, which floorboards groaned, and exactly how long it took the heavy oak doors to swing shut.
I waited, straining my ears against the oppressive silence of the es
