Morning light comes in through the floor-to-ceiling glass not as a harsh glare, but as a soft, pale wash of pewter and silver. The storm has passed, leaving the air outside crisp, clear, and scrubbed clean.
When I stretch my hand out across the king-sized bed, my fingers encounter only cool, empty Egyptian cotton.
I open my eyes, blinking against the light, finding the space beside me smooth and vacant. The subtle scent of leather, and rain still clings to Locke’s pillow, but the sheets are long cold. A sharp spike of instinctual dread flares in my belly – Did he go out somewhere? Did I somehow sleep through the officers' meeting? – until I hear it.
It’s faint, muffled by the long hallway, but unmistakably present.
A heavy, synthesized bassline. A pounding 80s drum beat.
I roll over,
