I make it to the vanity before my legs decide they’re done with this nonsense and I have to grab the edge of the countertop with both hands to keep myself upright. The marble is cold under my palms. Veined gold in cream. Some interior designer made a lot of money picking this slab.
I look up. The mirror is a clean, brutal piece of glass framed in brass, shined to a perfect polish, but the man in it doesn’t look like me.
All the features are the same as they always have been. Pale skin. Black stubble. Blue eyes. But there’s a sheen of sweat at my hairline and my tie is sitting half a degree off-center.
My hand is on my chest. Not on the gun, but on the inside breast pocket of my jacket. Through the wool, I can feel the square of paper she pressed into me. Stiff. Folded along old creases.
