Andres didn't kill that night.
He wanted to.
His hands itched for it — the pressure valve that needed releasing. But instead, he stayed in and read Thana's interview from three years ago in a Paris journal. Her answers were sharp. Lonely. A question had stuck with him.
"Do you ever feel understood?" "Only when no one is watching."
That's when he realized what she really hated about playing: not the music — the audience.
He poured a drink and stared at the photo again — the anonymous one. The crime scene he thought no one knew about.
Someone was watching him now.
He checked the locks. He checked the cameras. He checked himself.
Andres Nightwinn was many things — a liar, a killer, a mask.
But he wasn't afraid.
Not until now.