Logan's POV
I squint at the flickering security footage, my fingers twitching across the trackpad.
"Zoom in," I mutter under my breath. The frame enhances again.
The image stutters, and the pixels melt into one another until it's impossible to tell if I'm looking at a person or a smudge on the lens. Static crawls across the screen. The shooter's silhouette darts across the hall—blurry, almost spectral.
I lean closer to the screen, my eyes burning from twelve hours of staring at pixelated shadows. The timestamp reads 14:23— right before the shooting—but all I see are smears of movement, the occasional flicker of a face I can't place.
Even my own face is a blur when I pause on the exact moment I ran to Rowan's side. My own reflection glares back at me from the darkened monitor, hollow-eyed and stubbled.
"Damn it," I mutter.
The security footage is useless.
