The Rip
Keys, phone, weight at his heart where a badge used to sit and where a smaller, stoppered bottle now did.
At the door, Gabe paused. The light through the high window had gone a step dimmer, clouds gathering like bad news over the cove. The church hummed the way buildings hum when they’re old enough to know better.
“Frank,” he said without turning. “If this is my fault—”
“It is not,” Frank said, severe. “It is old, and it is hungry, and you were in the wrong place with the wrong kind of courage. Guilt is an easy door. Don’t hold it open.”
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