t was one of those gray, heavy mornings that clung to the sky like a warning. Kingsley Rowe sat behind the wheel of his matte black Escalade, hands tightening and loosening around the leather steering wheel as the rain lightly tapped against the windshield. He hadn’t slept well. Again. The fight with Beth still echoed in his mind, hollow and bitter. Every word she threw at him replayed on loop: “stop being a baby,” “I’m not your babysitter,” and his chest felt like it was slowly ...