The city kept time like a stubborn clock; sirens, traffic, a bus gasping at the corner. Moira walked with her collar up, hands buried in her pockets, the aftertaste of Christabel’s words still metallic on her tongue. She’d blocked Matthew and watched the phone fall still. It should have felt like an ending. Instead, it sounded like a beginning.

By the time she reached her building, fog pressed low against the street, smudging tail lights and turning strangers into blurs. She took the ...