ARIA

The handcuffs were cold, a sharp, biting reminder of how quickly the world can tilt on its axis. One moment I was a Callahan by name, protected by the tall stone walls of the manor, and the next, I was being shoved into the back of a squad car while news reporters scurried to get one word out of me.

The precinct didn't smell like cedar or expensive tobacco anymore; it smelled of floor wax, old coffee, and the metallic tang of fear.

They led me into a small, windowless room. A single ...