The drive from the Sea Wall Overlook to the quiet, leaf-shrouded street where Fiona lived was conducted in a heavy, contemplative silence. The roar of the Atlantic had been replaced by the hum of the sedan's tires against the asphalt, a sound that felt like a countdown.
Fiona leaned her head against the cool leather of the headrest, her eyes closed. Every time she blinked, she saw the "Storm-Gray" of Martin's eyes and the sharp, jagged smirk of Clara. The adrenaline that had sustained her through the dramatic exit at the Spire was beginning to ebb, leaving behind a cold, hollow ache in her chest.
Caleb drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting firmly over Fiona's hand. He didn't push her to talk. He knew that the mind of a creative was a delicate ecosystem, and right now, Fiona's ecosystem had been hit by a category-five hurricane.
When they pulled up to the modest, well-kept cottage, the porch light was already on, casting a warm, amber glow over the flowerbeds.
