Moira stared at the phone in her hand, the screen glowing in the dim light of her apartment. She had barely touched her dinner; the pasta, once perfectly warm, had long since cooled and congealed. The message on her phone was simple, almost too short to be real, but the name attached to it made her pulse spike.

Matthew.

She hadn’t heard from him in days, not since that final meeting at the café. And now, this message—this brief, desperate cry—left her with nothing but a pit in her ...