Locke
I didn’t sleep last night.
That isn’t unusual for me. I’ve gone entire nights without closing my eyes when club business was bad enough, when numbers refused to balance, or somebody’s life depended on a decision no one else wanted to make.
This is different, though. This is Zara. The apartment still feels like her, even though she’s gone.
Her mug sits beside the sink, the one with the tiny chip in the handle that she refuses to throw away because she says it fits her thumb perfectly. The blanket she always steals is bunched at one end of the couch, as if she might come back through the door, curl beneath it and complain that I’ve made the place too cold again.
I stand in the kitchen, drinking much-needed coffee, and stare at my phone. I type her name.
Delete it.
Type again.
A
