Outside, Zane sat in the car longer than he should have.
Rain tapped against the windshield in slow, deliberate rhythms — a steady percussion that blurred the city into streaks of gold and gray.
He hadn't turned the wipers on.
He just watched.
The building loomed in his peripheral vision — her building — six floors of old brick and quiet windows. One of them still glowed faintly through sheer curtains, a pale rectangle of light that refused to go out.
Willow.
He could almost see her there, standing barefoot on the polished wood floor, the faint silver at her throat catching the lamplight. He didn't have to imagine the rest — it was burned into him. The way her damp hair clung to her shoulders, the way her robe had slipped slightly when she leaned against the counter, the calm defiance in her eyes when she pretended not to care.
She was pretending about a lot of things.
So was he.
He told himself this was simple.
A lie he could manage — Miles's lie, not his.
