The hum of the refrigerator is the loudest sound in the kitchen, a low, steady thrum that does almost nothing to drown out the oppressive silence settling over us.
Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city sprawls like a blanket of scattered embers against the pitch-black night, indifferent to the violent fracture that has torn through my family just hours ago.
I sit perched on the edge of the tall wooden stool, my hands wrapped tightly around a mug of green tea. Across the marble island, Locke moves with quiet, practiced rhythm. He’s rolled his shirt sleeves up to his elbows, revealing the intricate ink tracing his forearms.
He’s preparing a pasta dish, boiling a pot of salted water, slicing ripe cherry tomatoes, and tossing garlic into a skillet with olive oil. The sharp, comfor
