The shattered remains of my coffee cup stayed on the floor for a long time. I couldn't move. I just stared at the bold, red letters on my phone screen until the light dimmed and the display went black.
Asher Reed. Dead.
The words felt like a physical weight on my chest, yet my doctor's brain was already dissecting the probability. The "Mascots" were a disorganized swarm compared to the mafia precision of the Reed family. How could they get close enough to draw blood let alone end Asher But then, I remembered the week of silence. The "False Peace." Has Asher been distracted? Had I been the distraction that left him vulnerable?
I spent the next forty-eight hours in a waking fever dream.
I expected the charcoal-suited men at the hospital to break. I expected them to vanish, or to inform me about what is going on, or at the very least, to look defeated. But they did something worse: they became statues.
