The city had learned to hold its breath around Avery lately—co-workers lowering their voices when he passed, friends watching him the way people watch a candle gutter in a draft. He forced normalcy anyway. Lunch with Natalie and Arianna in a bright bistro, laughter that felt almost real, a promise to taste-test baby-shower cakes next week.
When Natalie stepped away to take a call and Arianna dashed to the restroom, Avery's phone buzzed. Unknown number.
You were warned to stay out of it.
Beneath the text—a photo: Avery and Sloane the night before, framed through a black circle. A rifle scope, reticle centred on Sloane's temple.
His heart lurched. He lifted his gaze, scanning glass walls, rooftops, mirrored windows across the street. The lunch crowd blurred. He made himself smile when Arianna returned, stowed the phone, finished dessert with steady hands. He did not mention the scope. He simply excused himself early, citing an afternoon meeting.
