n Knap

The custom light fixture, a swirling galaxy of fiber optics I had designed to mimic the constel

y fingers met nothing but the frigid, empty expanse of the high-thread-count sheets. I held them there for a

he Italian marble floor. The shock of cold shot straight up my spine, a welco

life. Below, New York was stirring, the first rays of dawn catching the steel and glass of the skyline. This city

esident, but as a critic reviewing a finished proje

for the magazine spreads Jayson loved, but a nightmare for privacy. "A sh

. The walk-in closet by the entrance, with custom shelving deep enough for his collection of size-thirteen limited-edition sneakers. The built-in beverage station by his

took up eighty percent of the real estate, a meticulously organized a

fficient, devoid of sentiment. I packed only the basics: a few pairs of jeans, some simple sweaters, a black dress. All items I had bought with my own money. Th

d. "Wait for me, my chief designer." I picked up the heavy cardstock, read the words that once would have made my he

ot a single message from Jayson. He was a ghost when a project

His business tomes and biographies on one side, my architectural theory and history on the other. I pulled out th

indentation in the wood paneling behind it. I froze. It was the release for a hidden compartment I had de

ook hold. I pressed the spot. With a faint pneumatic hiss, a section of the bo

inside. Just a single, deep-blue

had never told me he'd

d and unmarked. With a sense of clinical detachment,

caught in