The red light of the studio felt like a heavy weight in the air. I stood there, my chest heaving, watching the back of his head. He looked so solid, so real, yet he had been a ghost to me for seven hundred days.
"I asked you a question, Angel," Vaughan said. He still didn't turn around. His voice was a flat, dead line. "Why are you here?"
"And I said you know why," I whispered, my voice trembling. "You know didn't come here for new talk. I didn't come here for a chat. I came here for the man who spent two years pretending I died the moment I stepped out of his house."
Silence.
Then, Vaughan finally turned his chair. His face was a mask of cold stone. There was no heat in his eyes, no hunger. Just a chilling, professional distance that made me feel smaller than I ever had before.
"What
