NICK
The car was quiet, the hum of the tires against the pavement the only soundtrack to the post-mortem currently playing in the back of my mind.
I sat in the leather embrace of the driver's seat, my head tilted slightly, staring at the blurred gray geometry of the city.
My jaw throbbed. It wasn't so painful, I've seen enough facial trauma to know the difference between a fracture and a contusion, but it was definitely there.
A dull, rhythmic announcement under the skin. I resisted the urge to touch it. To touch it was to acknowledge the impact, and I wasn't ready to grant that satisfaction to the empty car.
I replayed the whole thing with the same cold accuracy of a surgeon reviewing a botched bypass.
Noah had been a known variable.
Emotional, reactive, his attempts at composure as transparent as a cheap glass.
He was performing the role of a professional, but the boy who used to hide in the pantry during our father's galas was still vibrating just beneath the surface.
