*Chris' POV*
The call replayed in my head like a wound that wouldn't close. Every word burned the same way it the note had—his calm tone, the gloating, the way he controlled everything, as he would back then, even the soft sounds in the background. I'd memorised the noise before I realised I was doing it, trying to pick it apart for clues that weren't there.
Wind. Silence.
Then the click that ended everything.
I couldn't stop pacing. My chest felt too tight, my fists clenched so hard the skin over my knuckles ached. The house was too quiet, too still, every creak of the floor making me turn as if she might suddenly be standing there. Anne's voice finally broke through.
"Chris," she said softly, from the doorway. "You need to sleep."
"I'm fine."
"You're not," she said, crossing her arms. Her tone wasn't sharp, but steady—the way she probably used to speak to clients when they were ready to come undone.
"You've been awake for over 24 hours. You're no good to her like this."
