Amara Pov

Every step through the cavernous hotel connecting the lobby felt surreal. Second by second, dread settled deeper in my chest. By the time I reached the valet and slipped out into the humid city air, the shock had begun to throb fear, rage, whatever message that nightmare of broken glass was meant to deliver.

The drive home felt endless, my heart hammering loud enough to drown out the engine. I rehearsed what I’d find: destruction. Chaos. A message.

I imagined reading the riot ...