Locke
I step into the foyer, tossing my heavy truck keys onto the mahogany side table. I pull my leather jacket off my shoulders and hang it on the rack, my gaze immediately going to the clock hanging on the wall in front of me.
8:14 PM.
Without knowing why, I stop dead in my tracks, cold stillness settles over my chest.
Zara sent me a text at four o'clock this afternoon saying her meeting with Willow went well and that she was heading straight back to the car to come home. That was over four hours ago.
Except the penthouse is completely dark. Her boots aren't by the door. Her coat isn't on the hook.
"Zara?" I call out, “Baby, where are you?”
Silence.
I walk through the apartment, heading toward the master bedroom first. The door is half-open, casting a narrow strip of soft light
