Matt strolled into his room, sure of just one thing, there was impending danger. What that danger was, however, remained as frustratingly vague as a politician's campaign promise. He reached for the brown crumpled note again, unfolding it with the careful reverence of a man handling a live explosive. How could one piece of paper, small enough to fit in a child's palm, cause him so much internal discord?
He laid on his bed, staring at the ceiling, and then it hit him.
Not a literal explosion. Not yet. But a realization, sharp and undeniable, sliced through the fog of his exhaustion and distorted mind.
He had just made a very bad decision.
The thought arrived like a flash of lightning, too fast to stop, too late to evade. His mind's eye followed the trajectory with horrifying clarity: a missile, screaming through the night air, its path predetermined, its target singular. And to his despair, it wasn't screaming toward him.
It was heading straight for Yvonne's room.
