Tony
The shop was silent at 3:15 AM, the kind of heavy, pressurized quiet that precedes a storm. I had come down the back stairs and into the kitchen early. I needed the time alone to clear the grit from my head and the murder from my heart.
I stood at the back workbench, the only light coming from the amber glow of the ovens as they clicked through their pre-heat cycles. I was staring at the trash can. The note was still in there, buried under a dusting of flour and eggshells, but it felt like it was glowing through the plastic.
The sequel.
My hands tightened on the edge of the steel table until the metal bit into my palms. I remembered that night ten years ago better than I remembered yesterday. It had been a beautiful moment of young passion—clumsy but earnest. A physical expression
