Zane senses it before he understands it.
The sound reaches him through the closed car windows first, distorted by concrete and distance. Sirens. Not one. Several. Layered and overlapping, converging from different directions with no rhythm or order. The noise vibrates through the parking structure, echoing off pillars and low ceilings, crawling under his skin.
He pulls the phone from his ear without thinking, as if the sound itself has interrupted the call.
"Zane?" the voice on the other end says, thin and uncertain.
Then the line cuts out.
He stares at the screen, waiting for the signal bars to return, for the call to reconnect, for something ordinary to explain the interruption. His thumb hovers uselessly over the glass.
Nothing happens.
His chest tightens.
She has been gone too long.
The thought slips in quietly, almost politely, and then refuses to leave.
"Willow," he says aloud, already dialing.
The call rings once. Twice.
Voicemail.
