Bruce's POV

The penthouse felt empty in a way that had nothing to do with furniture or space. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city lights but the view brought no comfort. I stood there most nights, whiskey glass in my hand, staring at nothing while everything inside me screamed to go home.

But home meant facing Beverly and I could not do that without seeing her blood pooling on concrete. I could not look at her without remembering how her hand went limp in mine, how her eyes closed ...