Kendric starts toward the door, his movements stiff, too measured, as if each step is being forced through thick resistance. Something in the air shifts with him, subtle but undeniable, like the room just lost a degree of warmth.

My eyes track him, unease crawling beneath my skin like cold fingers trailing along my spine.

Ever since I asked about the “mad dog,” his answer has lingered. It was half-formed, evasive. He gave me just enough to silence the moment, but not the truth. Not the part ...