The bar was nearly empty — just the low hum of old jazz through hidden speakers and the clink of ice against glass. A few stragglers sat along the counter, heads bent toward the amber in their cups.
Zane sat at the far end, jacket off, sleeves rolled, tie hanging loose like a half-kept promise. The soda in front of him was flat now, the ice melted to nothing. He hadn't touched it.
He wasn't here to drink.
He was here to keep from breaking something.
The phone on the counter still glowed faintly. Call ended.
He'd been the one to hang up — not because the conversation was over, but because if he'd kept listening to Miles's voice another second, he would've said something he couldn't take back.
The words he threw at Miles looped in his head.
You wanted her gone.
He clenched his jaw until it hurt.
