Carson stood in front of Fred’s apartment building, his breath coming in short, uneven bursts.
The chill of the early morning brushed against his face, but he barely felt it. His heart thudded painfully in his chest as he stared at the door. This was it—the one place he thought he might find her.
He raised his hand and knocked. The sound echoed through the quiet hallway, sharp and hollow.
He waited, his fingers trembling slightly, his mind racing with what he would say if she opened the door.
Footsteps approached. The door creaked open.
Fred stood there, dressed in a simple shirt and jeans, his hair slightly messy as if he had just woken up. His expression froze the moment he saw Carson. His eyes narrowed, not in anger exactly, but in wariness.
Carson’s throat went dry. “Anabelle,”
