He was here.
Ethan.
Not lingering in the lobby like a visitor. Not haunting the hallway like a specter. He was here. Sitting in the chair by the window. My chair, a high-backed armchair in the corner, and he was sitting in it like he belonged. Like he had the right. Like he owned the air.
He was still in the charcoal suit he had worn for the gallery opening, though his tie was loose and sinuous, and the top button of his pugnaciously pointed white shirt was open, exposing his tan throat. One leg was crossed over the other, holding a crystal whiskey glass of amber liquid, whiskey probably, that shook precariously on his outstretched hand. He wasn't looking at the door; his gaze had shifted to the blank wall opposite him, or some distant place in his mind, his face utterly vacant in the pale, hour-late light that came thin and cold through the curtains. A statue of shadow and stifled rage.
He'd heard me. The tiny gasp that wrenched out of my throat, the sudden quiet of my bare feet on
