Tisha's bungalow was an architectural masterpiece of sprawling glass and elegant, dark stone, tucked behind a screen of disciplined ivy.
In the soft glow of the early night lights, it stood with a silent, expensive grace that felt like a private sanctuary.
Howard Sterling watched from half a block back, his headlights killed, his own car idling in the deep shadow of a delivery van.
His gaze was locked on the silver car parked at the entrance of the apartment, his grip on the steering wheel vibrating with a raw, nervous energy.
He watched Tisha step out of the back seat.
Alone.
She smoothed her skirt, adjusted her hair, and walked up the garden path without so much as a backward glance at the car.
No lingering goodbye, no embrace, no whispered conversation through the window.
She simply walked to the door, let herself in, and disappeared.
Sterling exhaled... a long, slow release of air he hadn't realised he'd been holding since Garrison Avenue.
