KANE

The wind was a cold, hungry thing that night, howling through the headstones of the Callahan private cemetery. It carried the scent of wet earth and the metallic tang of approaching snow. I stumbled over a patch of uneven grass, the bottle of expensive bourbon in my hand sloshing dangerously. I hadn't slept in what felt like a lifetime. My head was a chaotic storm of architectural renderings, police reports, and the constant, mocking image of Aria dancing in that abandoned mill.

I ...