Hansen didn't go back to the cafe. He couldn't. The very thought of the warm, inviting scent of roasted beans made him want to retch. That shop had been his stakeout, his piece of "normalcy" used to bridge the gap back to his friend, but now it felt like a stage for a play that had ended in a bloodbath.
He drove with a white-knuckled grip on the wheel, his vision blurring as the windshield wipers struggled to keep up with the torrential downpour. He navigated the industrial sprawl with a reckless, autopilot intensity, heading toward his "safe" apartment.
As soon as he stepped inside, he kicked the door shut with a violence that shook the thin walls. He didn't turn on the lights. He didn't need to. The grey light filtering through the high, barred windows was enough to illuminate the wreckage of his life.
