CASSIAN
The sharp, persistent chirp of a ringing phone didn't just wake me; it felt like a serrated blade sawing through the thick, whiskey-soaked fog of my skull. Every cell in my body throbbed in a rhythmic, agonizing protest against the light of morning.
I groaned, my arm feeling like deadweight as I reached blindly toward the nightstand. My fingers brushed against silk and cold glass before finally closing around the device. The screen was a blinding supernova in the room, and I squinted through the haze until a name came into focus.
Louis Durant.
I swiped the screen with a thumb that felt numb. "Durant," I said. My voice was a ruined thing... gravelly and raw, as if I'd spent the night swallowing sandpaper and broken glass.
"Mr. Wolfe. I hope I'm not calling too early," Durant's voice came through, calm and impeccably composed.
