The cold in the warehouse is a living thing, creeping through the soles of my boots and seeping into the marrow of my bones.
Knox paces the perimeter of my chair like a man drunk on cheap spirits. His chest is puffed out, his eyes wide and glossy with a terrifying, hollow euphoria.
His fingers are trembling, not with fear, but with the frantic, electric rush of a gambler who thinks he’s finally cracked the system, and knows how to beat the house.
"Position it right here," Becca directs, stepping forward to adjust the phone camera angle. Her cheeks are flushed, a bright, feverish red standing out against her pale foundation. She smooths down the sweater stretched over her rounded stomach, leaning over the screen to check the frame. "Make sure the camera gets her face. Make sure they see
