RANEThe house was quiet in the particular way it only got after ten o'clock, when the staff had gone and the radiators ticked instead of talked. Rane stood in the hallway outside Mara's study with a glass of whisky he hadn't touched and a key in his pocket he'd had cut eight months ago, back when he still told himself it was for emergencies.He tried the handle first, out of some leftover instinct toward honesty. Locked."Since when do you lock your own study, Mara?" he said to the empty hallway, and didn't like how his voice sounded saying it — thin, almost hurt, like a man rehearsing a line for later.He let himself in.The desk lamp threw a cone of amber light over papers she'd left stacked with her usual precision — invoices, a printed itinerary for Geneva, a birthday card she hadn't sent yet. He wasn't looking for any of that. He was looking at the bottom drawer, the one that never used to lock, the one he'd watched her test twice last week with her thumb before glancing over he
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