The apartment held the kind of hush that wasn't just quiet, but charged -- the low, dense silence of a late morning that knew too much had happened the night before. Sunlight slipped through half-drawn curtains, softening the edges of sleek furniture and polished surfaces, but even that light seemed subdued, like it was tiptoeing across the hardwood. Shannon stood barefoot at the kitchen island, wrapped in one of Craig's old T-shirts -- the fabric thin and worn to transparency in places, brushing the tops of her thighs, slipping wide across one shoulder like it had forgotten what it meant to fit. Her hair was half-wound, half-wild, a soft mess...