Ronan woke with his sheets damp, the salty taste of tears still clinging to his mouth. He hadn't slept well—every creak of the floorboards, every rattle of wind against the window had felt like someone standing over him. When dawn finally pried his eyes open, he felt no relief. His body was heavy, his head a fog, and the memory of locking eyes with the target at the soup shop kept replaying until his stomach churned.
One silver lining though, whether it was in his own head or not, was that he no longer had the persistent feeling of being watched.
He forced himself to wash, dress, and eat a crust of bread that tasted like dust. His nerves jolted every few minutes, expecting a hand to fall on his shoulder, or a voice to suddenly question him. Nothing came. Yet the absence of danger was almost worse, like waiting for the axe to drop.
