The morning sun hit my face like a spotlight—God Himself cross-examining me. Honestly, I probably looked like I'd been mugged by insomnia and then left for dead by a particularly vindictive ex. My reflection in the car window had showed bags under my eyes big enough to smuggle contraband through airport security.
My body? Overcooked pasta—shake me wrong and I'd collapse into a tragic heap of gluten.
Last night had been Sofia's corruption in the old house—Jack Morrison's princess reduced to a hymn of betrayal under the same roof that once held my bruises. Afterward at 1AM., I drove her home like some supernatural Uber driver who accepts orgasms instead of tips.
Then I stayed in that childhood mausoleum because closure demanded it. Or maybe vengeance did. Hard to tell the difference these days.
And now here I stood, staring at Carter Mansion looking like death reheated in a microwave.
