touch, meaning he hadn’t just left; he had been gone for a long time. My heart did a sudden, violent stutter-step in my chest. A strange, primal instinct—the kind of cold, predatory adrenaline that keeps wild animals alive in the winter—flared to life in my veins.
I threw off the duvet, swung my legs out of bed, and stepped onto the cold hardwood floor.
“Evan?” I called out, my voice sounding far too thin and fragile against the roar of the rain outside.
No answer.
I crept out into the upstairs hallway. The house was dead quiet, save for the rhythmic dripping of a loose gutter outside. I walked down the narrow corridor toward the living room stairs.
The couch was empty.
The heavy plaid blanket I had folded neatly across the armrest earlier that evening was tossed carelessly onto the cushions, twisted into
