MIRA

The email arrives at 3:14 a.m.

I'm awake... of course I'm awake. I'm sitting on the carpet of my office with documents scattered around me like bones. A storm rattles against the windows, an echo of the one inside my chest. I only open my laptop to shut it down for the night, but then I see it.

A new message pops on the screen with no subject. The sender field makes my stomach drop: Damian Holt. He's in prison, he should be in prison. They took him away in cuffs, bleeding, and spitting ...