The motorcycle ate the distance of the alleyway, the engine's scream echoing off the brick walls. The highway ramp was a rising concrete spine ahead of me.
As I rode, Emilio's voice from the basement started to loop in my head. The words he had said about Julian. About what they did to him before the end.
I didn't repeat the words to myself; I didn't need to. They sat behind my eyes like a physical weight, the way a deep wound sits beneath heavy clothing.
Memory is a traitor. It waits until you are at your limit to show you what you've lost.
A flash hit me: A rooftop. A summer night four years ago. We were high enough that the city noise was just a hum. Two lukewarm beers sat between us, and a box of Chinese takeout was going cold. We were sharing a single cigarette.
Julian was leaning against the railing, looking out at the skyline. He was never afraid of heights. He was never afraid of the things that should have frightened him.
