The air was thick with the sweet, cloying scent of blooming jasmine, mingling with the metallic tang of Thorne's despair as he stumbled from his sedan, his face a wreck of tear-streaked agony. His gaze darted wildly, searching the shadows for salvation, for any sign that this was still a nightmare he could wake from.
Agnes stood waiting on the sidewalk, her silhouette framed by the flickering glow of a streetlamp. She'd rushed out after hearing the raw, gut-wrenching panic in his voice over the phone, her maternal instincts overriding the late hour, her heart pounding with dread for her only son, her pulse a frantic drumbeat beneath her smooth, pampered skin.
