Rain swept across the overlook in long silver streaks, driven sideways by the wind rolling in from the sea.
The turnout sat high above the city, separated from the cliff edge by a steel guardrail slick with water. Beyond it, darkness fell toward the shoreline below. The skyline glittered in the distance, towers and streets reflected across rain-soaked pavement like scattered constellations.
Cael Alexander parked the car facing the view.
The engine ticked softly as it cooled.
Neither of them moved.
The ruined orchard sat between them despite being miles away.
Galathea Brooks stared through the windshield.
Three cuts.
Three deliberate cuts.
The image replayed relentlessly.
The torn trees.
The shattered farmhouse.
The tiny porcelain mask hanging from a branch where it had never existed before.
She had restored that painting.
She knew every crack beneath the varnish.
Every area where pigment had weakened.
Every repair she had made.
And now it was gone.
