C11 The Wrong Name
— LOGAN —
He didn’t bother with lights.
Forty-three floors above the city and it still pressed too close tonight.
Tie already loose, he stood at the floor-to-ceiling glass, poured two fingers of the twenty-five-year-old Macallan he kept for nights like this, and drank it like medicine.
He’d called her staff.
Right in front of Victoria’s manicured hand on his sleeve
