Dawn did not break so much as it bled. A slow, grey seepage around the edges of the heavy blackout curtains in the Sterling guest room. Alexander Hale surfaced from unconsciousness not into clarity, but into a thick, viscous fog of wrongness.

His head was a throbbing cathedral of pain. His mouth tasted of copper and stale cognac. And his memories... they were shards of colored glass, sharp and disjointed, refusing to form a coherent picture. The cold press of a glass against his lips. Evelyn's reassuring smile. Then, a crimson splash, a shock of cold wetness on his chest. Lara's wide, panicked eyes.