At 8:12, the sharp, harsh vibration of his phone buzzes against the kitchen stone.
The sound cuts through the room like a blade. Locke doesn't jump, but his back muscles instantly lock into hard, unyielding lines. He carefully sets his coffee mug down on the glass table, stands up, and walks into the kitchen.
I set my teacup down, my hands trembling just enough to make the delicate porcelain clink sharply against the saucer.
Locke picks up the phone, looking down at the glowing screen for two long, unbearable seconds before sliding his thumb across the glass.
"Locke," he says, his voice a low rasp in the quiet.
I hold my breath, watching his profile from across the open space. His features remain carved from granite, but I know him well enough to see the truth: the subtle pulse jumpin
