Ava's door slammed shut with a finality that made the chandelier above the minibar quiver in either fear or quiet judgment.
Zach exhaled slowly. He glanced down at the fireplace remote still clutched in his hand, then at the flames flickering so dramatically that if the fire could talk, it would probably recite bad poetry about longing and unpaid therapy bills.
He set the remote down like it might bite him. Then, in a move that could only be described as domestically sinister, he crossed the room, opened a hidden panel behind a bookshelf, and revealed a sleek, steel-lined safe embedded in the wall.
He pressed his thumb to the biometric scanner.
It beeped.
The safe clicked open.
Inside: one worn black notebook, a gun so customized it looked illegal in seven countries, and a velvet box that, if you stared too long, made you feel vaguely Catholic guilt.
