20: Gunshot

Devon slams his phone on the coffee table. He hears a crack, but it's satisfying. It's five in the morning and Amelia hasn't given him any news. It's either she hasn't found anything and is determined to leave the city, or she's dead.

She can't be fucking dead.

He starts pacing around his living room, staring at the cracked screen and hoping it will light up with a notification. A text, a missed call, anything. His glass is empty, and he moves to the cabinet in the corner of his living room to refill it with whiskey. He then decides to ditch the glass. He'll drink straight from the bottle instead.

He was counting on her to get the job done, he still is. She's his best chance at getting the information he needs. The employer's paying a lot of money for that name. They'll get even more money once they do get the name, and Devon will get the promotion he's had his eye on for three years. There's a lot at stake and she can't fuck it up.

It's not just the name, though. He is worried about