Zane stepped out of a cab, for the first time since… he couldn't even remember—he never thought he had entered a cab before.
But with the way he was feeling, hollowed out and wound too tight, he hadn't been in the mood to drive, and he didn't even know what he was doing here.
After paying the driver, leaving a generous tip—which had the aged man bobbing his head in appreciation as he drove off—Zane stood with his hands buried in his pockets, facing the Whitman mansion.
The house loomed, silent and imposing, its iron gates closed like a judgment.
What was he doing here? he asked himself as he walked to the gate and knocked, then remembered and pressed the black thumb-sized button set right at the middle of the gate.
And again, he didn't know the answer.
His legs had just led him right here after the gruesome meeting he had with the shareholders and board members of the entire Whitman empire.
