POV: Evans Wilson

I sat in Valarie's living room until the sky turned grey with dawn. My phone buzzed constantly—messages from the hospital monitoring Nancy's vitals, alerts from the security system at home, and three missed calls from Marcus, my investigator.

I couldn't answer any of them. Not while Valarie was watching me like a hawk from the doorway of her bedroom.

"You look tired, darling," she said, walking toward me with a fresh cup of coffee. She was wearing a silk robe that cost more than most people's cars. "You should rest. The morning photos won't be nearly as effective if you look like a zombie."

"Photos?" I stood...