Chapter 87. A Chip

Rico sat alone on the couch in his office, the phone lay abandoned on the desk, the call already ended, but Leah’s voice still rang loud in his head, sharp and mocking, refusing to fade no matter how hard he tried to push it away.

He didn’t bother turning on the lights. The windows were shut tight, the thick curtains pulled together, leaving only a thin line of light slipping through one small gap. It barely lit the room, but he didn’t need more than that.

He lifted the whiskey bottle and took another long pull, not even bothering with a glass. The burn didn’t faze him anymore. The bottle was almost empty now, but he still drank like it wasn’t enough. Like it could wash something out of him if he tried hard enough.

A cigar sat between his fingers, forgotten for a moment. The ashtray on the table held three used stubs already, proof of how long he’d been sitting there, stuck in the same place, stuck in the same thoughts all morning.

His hair was a mess, finger