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The Target
Moran settled into character immediately: the baffled boyfriend, too drunk to keep his voice down. “What did I do this time?” A few of the other guests glanced their way. “One minute you’re all over me, the next you’re pushing me away—what do you want from me?!”
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Zone Surveillance
Sebastian went back to sifting through his emails. The bathroom door closed, the muffled noise of the shower drifting through. He was halfway through a careful reply to Milverton Analytics’ inquiry about a consult when a loud thump resounded from inside the bathroom.
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Panopticon
Jay was sitting upright, the top half of the bed folded up to support him. He was wearing a medical binder; from what he’d told Sebastian, it was meant to keep the swelling down and encourage his chest muscles to heal properly. There were two plastic bulbs—surgical drains—clipped to the bottom of the binder, attached to long tubes that emerged from a pair of small incisions under his arms. At the sight of Sebastian, Jay’s face split into an uncharacteristically wide smile. “Hi.”
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Three Weeks Later
Another Brit. They must’ve all come in on the same flight. When Niki was a little girl in Greece, she’d thought the British were polite and sophisticated; just a few years in the hotel business had relieved her of that notion.
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Tech Support
Thanks to a series of overenthusiastic house-warming gifts, Sebastian owned two cast-iron Dutch ovens. His less favourite of the two currently contained his phone, its lid sealed in place with a generous amount of duct tape. He tucked it under his arm to free up a hand as he opened the door for Jay. “Four months?”