Zane hadn't really slept in weeks.
He could've lied to himself about it, told himself he'd napped here and there, but no—real sleep hadn't touched him. What he'd done instead was collapse face-down on the couch at odd hours and stare blankly at the back of his eyelids until the memories came, and then he'd jerk awake with that violent punch of panic in his throat.
His apartment was a wreck. Shirts thrown across the floor. A dozen coffee cups lining the counter like a graveyard of bad decisions. The glow of his laptop still illuminating the living room from where he'd left it open on a map of the city, tabs upon tabs of searches, old addresses, phone numbers, work contacts, anything, everything—
He went to the rooftop and sat there until his fingers went numb.
Nothing but wind.
He went to bars that Miles used to take her and where he had first met her, back when they were whatever strange, fragile thing they were before life got cruel.
