The locker room corridor smelled like disinfectant and adrenaline, a sterile attempt to mask the violence of competition. Sheila stood just outside the threshold, tablet pressed against her chest, heartbeat syncing with the distant thud of skates against concrete. Practice had ended ten minutes ago. The team should have been flooding out by now, laughing, shouting, tearing off gear.They weren’t.The silence was wrong.Sheila checked her watch, then the practice schedule. Everything was on time. Atticus Finch, however, was not a man who followed schedules unless they bent to his will.She stepped forward.The locker room door was half open. Steam rolled out, fogging her glasses. Inside, most of the stalls were empty. Helmets rested upside down like abandoned crowns. Atticus stood alone near his locker, shirtless, back to her, shoulders rigid as if carved from stone. A thin line of red traced down his ribs—fresh, angry.She stopped breathing.“I thought analysts weren’t allowed back he
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