CLICK
The most terrifying truth is not who pulls the strings, but that there are no strings, only a paying audience.
House Left
Heather was already up from the couch, pulling the throw back into a neat rectangle on the armrest, then moving past me toward the kitchen. I let her. My shirt was halfway over my shoulder when the knock came — three measured taps, evenly spaced, the way a metronome would knock if metronomes could use a knuckle.
"Twenty-one minutes," Heather said, without turning.
I pulled the shirt the rest of the way on, found the buttons, found two of them.