Chapter 59: The Shattered Mirror

The flight back from Alaska was a hushed, pressurized casket shooting through the black. Davidson stiffly held in the padded leather chair, the memory of Joe Brian's proximity still thrumming on his skin. The untouched glass of bourbon on the table before him taunted the dimmed cabin lights, a little, mocking replica of the star-sprinkled black outside. He relived the moment by the fire on a maddening, painful loop: the brush of fingers against his temple, the static tension, the lean-in, his own doomsday hesitation. He had felt the pull of the event horizon, and for a moment, he had stopped fighting it.

The private car dropped him at his Tribeca loft in the dark before dawn. The city slumbered, but his mind was howling. He entered quietly with a near-funereal silence. The loft was dark, still, and heavy with the familiar, sleeping breaths of his family. The scent of home—Melissa's lavender detergent, the slight, sweet odor of children, the lingering scent of last night's pasta—should