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