It was Saturday.
The third day since Maloi left, the second day since Benita vanished. The house had sunk into a kind of strange silence, interrupted only by the ticking clock and the sharp clink of bottles Cillian hadn’t cleaned up.
He blinked awake in bed, light barely filtering through the curtains. The weight in his chest hadn’t lifted. He stared at his phone on the nightstand, her name still pinned to the top. No new messages.
He didn’t have it in him to call last night. And he sure as hell didn’t have it in him this morning. With a sigh, he tossed the phone aside, rolled over, and pulled the blanket higher.
The door slammed open.
Cillian groaned into the pillow as Kent’s voice rang out like an airhorn. “Up. Shoes. Downstairs. Now.”
“Piss off,” Cillian muttered.
Kent strode across the room and yanked the mustard-yellow curtains open, letting the crisp Oakland morning air flood the room. The light hit Cillian’s face like a slap.
“You’ve got ten minutes before I drag you by the ank
