Chad Woods
Chad watched Cassandra from the shadow of the doorway, the light catching the edge of the gun tucked into his hand like a promise. She was alone in the reception area, back straight, hands folded over the swell of her belly as she rearranged a vase that had been knocked in some earlier rush. The movement should have been ordinary, domestic. To Chad it looked like defiance.
He stepped forward without hesitation, heels quiet on the marble. Cassandra’s head turned; the surprise that crossed her face was small but real. She tried to smile — a reflexive diplomatic smile — and for a second Chad almost believed she was still harmless.
“Cassandra,” he said, voice easy, low. “We need to talk.”
She froze. “Chad? What—how did you get in here?”
“Let’s not play dumb.” He closed the dist
