The living room, usually immaculate, looked like a war zone. Documents covered the marble floor like a paper snowfall, some shredded, others soaked with spilled whiskey. Two computer monitors glowed dimly from his desk, one looping security footage from the building's garage, the other showing lines of corrupted video files he'd been trying and failing to delete.
Brandon sat in the middle of the mess, barefoot, wearing yesterday's clothes. His tie hung loose around his neck, his hair matted and damp with sweat. The package from the night before, brown paper, now torn open sat on the coffee table in front of him. The contents were spread out like evidence: glossy photos, each one a punch to the ribs.
Danny Perez.
Levi Van Doren.
Blood on asphalt.
The last photo, the one that froze his breath, showed him, Brandon standing outside a car. That Danny's car. The timestamp was from the night the paparazzo died.
He didn't remember being there. At least, he didn't think he had been.
