I stumbled through the door just past midnight, the apartment dark except for the streetlight bleeding through the blinds. My keys clattered onto the armrest like loose change, and I collapsed onto the couch, the springs groaning under me. Every muscle screamed; dried blood crusted my knuckles, and the cut on my cheek throbbed with each heartbeat. I shut my eyes, the police-station fluorescents still burned into my retinas. Hours of statements, coffee that tasted like ash, Richard's snarling face across the interrogation table.
Because of him, the plan with Guy was pushed to tomorrow. Great. Just fucking great.
My phone buzzed against my thigh. Four missed calls from Nala. Three texts:
'When am I supposed to open the door?'
'Uh-oh. The plan changed. Please pick up.'
'Evan, please pick up.'
"My god…" I muttered, thumb hovering, then dialed. One ring. Two.
"Evan?" Her voice was a whisper, tight with worry. "Where are you? I've been calling nonstop!"
